Before the watery wall I stand,
a pane of glass between me and
flashy schools of myriad fish like sins parading
when a hammerhead impales my gaze.
I remember that one, the one
I should go to the gallows for,
before it pivots from the glass, as if
content to bide its time till the apocalypse.
Say, for an instant the earth quakes, the
glass cracks and another deluge follows,
the shark like avenging justice would seek
me out, for all my sins, for each mortal sin,
each like piranhas eating at my soul and
one long shark bite to crown the whole,
an entrée in the overtaking flood.
Would I call to that fool Noah to let me in
to his ark of gopherwood which we laughed
to see him build, four by fours, and two by twos,
the men and women kneeling to pray, now before
a Lamb slain, innocent blood, the promised Son?
The light dims around me, and for a moment,
the watery screen is empty, a gray shield,
a blank page to write my own fate sans God,
sans judgment, sans arks and crosses.
Maybe the fish were being fed on the other
side, a reprieve for me, “for my sins,” I laugh
and turn, when the hammerhead shoots out
of the murky depths and steals my bubbly grin away.
Continue reading “At the City Aquarium”