< Wreck Park: Poetry



Lauren Hunter, Art by Sean Robert Fitzgerald



i buy a goldfish and tell it a secret. every day,

when i feed him, i say what it is that i want.

i make a thousand wishes on this fish and

nothing changes. you came by without warning,

and my room was hidden under books and wires.

what you were gonna teach me, more importantly,

what i've gotta learn. i used to have a capacity and now

turn slowly in circles in my room, sobbing and eating

the fat off my thighs. i make jokes. i'm particular.

i am terrified that if you love me i will owe you

something i do not want to give. something i can't

readily take back. it's cruel but not to you. it's

self preservation except i started this. i kiss the side

of the fishbowl and lie: you are the onliest thing i want, fish.

i, too, dream

of where i am as where i'm supposed to be.

how i now saunter up to strangers & friends alike muttering, look into my heart

holding my ribcage open with my own steady hands.

when the ufo crashed into our backyard pool and the other kids scattered

but i pressed against the sliding glass door like

and what? like i've not chased boys around the cul-de-sac with a knife,

like i didn't mean it, like i didn't not mean it. i want to tell about the most

idyllic childhood traumas, the crash & summertime ghosts & that time

i wanted a bee for a pet. how about these ides, asshole? i am fond

of misplacing my anger on you. dredging up the drowned barn and each bloated

cow to lay on your hearth. a sweet rot, & gifts. go on and scold me,

i'm listening. i'm amused by every single one of my faults.