COOKED: Not Baked Tilapia, But Some Other Type Of Fish Or Ode To The Fish

Ode To The Fish

Fish of few colors

I hand selected you,

Love was in my hands,

reaching towards your

taut flesh, ready to be

cooked,

served,

consumed by me.

Your owner that you ruined,

Oh fish,

Never have I stank the way I did,

my quilts, my desk, my being, my soul they

carried you on, for days at a time, never fading

in quite the way I hoped

Wash I did,

Lies, they told me, you've done no such thing, but

I beseech you, fish, that I did

I washed with detergents, with tears

nothing will ever fully separate us, fish,

and for that, I hate you.

Chow, Lucia