John Poch
Invisible Fish
 

The guide at the slide show asks us
who can see the fish.
Each, in our own Alaska,
could guess, but only a wish

we could be surer rises.
Reluctant to raise a hand,
our total silence comprises
the fear of reprimand:

an ax-headed thought might swim:
a stone mistaken for a trout
below the ruffled scrim
of the run would leave no doubt

how Texan, how far we are
from nature. The hush confirms
our ignorance: we’d mar
the world with hooks and worms.

His silhouette’s afloat
behind the projector's boulder,
light swirling hotel motes
before him: silt, lit golden.

If he’s the fisherman,
then we’re the fish aware
of shadows, movement on
the shore, hunger and fear

our needle north from birth
and sex to death. He waits
as patiently the earth
holds steady on its plates

till a laser pointer now
points fish fish fish, discloses
just who we are from how
we hid within our guesses.

The last few slides, and on
come the lights. The river
evaporates. We’re gone
like fish out of water shiver.

 

 

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