Poetry – John Short


I dreamed of an aquarium
fixed into my back
a miniature box
with tetras and an angel fish,
its glass sunk deep
instead of memories,
I had to ask each day
if they were still alive
framed there
in that wall of flesh.
It was necessary
to watch out for these
delicate creatures, cradle
this transparent cube of life
while treading carefully
to avoid spillage
as police tracked me
through the rain-washed streets
of a dismal foreign town.
Why? I asked.
You're just the kind, they said.
A typical...


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