The Ability to Waste by Lorelei Bacht

For every fish killed by horror of air,

we will kill thousands more

by horror of collaterals.

Behold: the dragnet advancing,

slick death-machine, washing

every blue-tail out of the ocean blue.

A fish is a fish is a fish. We do not

care for sensitivities, poems –

everything comes with a number.

We will find the number of it

and bleed that number dry.

Every ripple an eye made of money –

current as currency. We will

rake the bottom of it into grey, crumbling.

Nothing opposes our power: we are

desperate for a wall. Until that wall,

we will continue to destroy

everything we can. We can a lot.

We sit tight on the pointy tip

of pyramids of violence, culminating

in strange delicacies which we do not

care for. The spoon stays on

the tablecloth. The fin is thrown

after dinner, intact. Our servants wrap it,

a reject, in a plastic bag at the back

of the five-star hotel. The soup goes in

the drain. This is power:

the ability to waste.

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Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is currently running out of ways to define herself. Keywords include: (former) lobbyist, mother (of two), (recreational) entomologist, (terrible) gardener, (adept) fishkeeper. Her recent work has appeared and/or are forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell, The Wondrous Real, Odd, Abridged, Slouching Beast Journal and The Riverbed Review. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer