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.
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