Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Chicken of the Sea

We are at the aquarium when she tells me

that the last time she threw up, shoulders hunched over

the porcelain toilet bowl, strands of blonde hair

grazing the seat, her index finger probing her throat,

she threw up tuna fish.

I wanted to stop, and I knew I’d never

Again make myself vomit

Once I’d thrown up tuna fish.

I imagine the miniature tuna swimming

up my throat, trying to force there way out.

Then the salmon I saw on a hike in sixth grade

that died trying to go home.

That salmon stopped eating,

put everything it had

into swimming upstream,

its mouth turning into

a beak. It slowly

began decomposing

but thought about

nothing but the task at hand.

The pressure of the vomit coming up

her throat like that salmon, swimming

against the current. And the smell:

like a dead fish lying on the sand under a hot sun,

frozen in a last gasp, ribs beginning to show through scales.

Blended with the slimy green algae that floats on

the surface of the pool you haven’t used in years

No comments: