Fish
Sliding around in my hand is a fish,
a cool,
smooth,
glittering fish.
I can see its eye looking up at me
wishing for a fissure in my hand
to slip through and flap back into the sea,
and turn under the seaweed again.
Maybe the fish will flaunt its colors
and collect stones for a pebble mountain
after kissing the sand,
dragging its tail along,
a trail for the others
So no one else will be caught by me.
No one else will skim the surface of my skin.
No one else will coat my hand with the sludge of fins and breath.
I'll let you go, fish
I'll pass you back into the water
But not yet.
I'm not ready yet.
About the author: Iris is a fifteen-year-old Sophomore at Laguardia High School for the Arts.
