Fish Head
by Meghan Flaherty
I bike in the quiet
intersection twilight.
Whistle pitched
from the sky
a fish head
smacks the pavement.
I flinch, go over
the handlebars.
Knees claw.
Fish scales
reflect the shine
of the streetlamp,
rocks washed
in wet rainbow.
One eye
stares flat up,
lips gape,
hot salt smell
of the bay
escapes, exudes
entrails and slow-
moving ooze.
In a polyester
gown and gauze,
I dream of the
hot air balloon
to heaven
slipping the
occassional
half-eaten
soul overboard.
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