By Jeff Santosuosso
Oh no, the carp have shed their scales again,
which float to the clouds like wrongway confetti.
They prism the sunlight in their dervish rotations,
while the fish shiver in scalelessness.
They should know better.
Piscine rebellion is an awkward moment
despite the glorious light show.
The earth’s rotation slows by the weight of the scales
strangling the wind.
The drag is measurable, and the carp ascend
floating in a cloud of their own scales,
which flutter them like barbwire eyelashes
and tear their skinless flesh
until their blood runs down,
deflecting off the slower scales, which arose in sloth,
now carmine like mosaic tiles,
even the inner surface that touched only its host
like a placenta.
Fish emerge from eggs with shells like albumen.
And before he is born, man floats in that sacred sac.
We shoulder our mothers from the inside.
We flutter there like wrongway confetti
gathering skin that layers lighter than lashes,
floating in an amniotic cloud.
Blood rushes by us, into us
like carmine mosaic tiles
before we emerge in rupture
and shed our maternal scales.
Clutching at Straws 