At the back
of the store, in a
frosty glass case,
steelheads—laid
tail to head
to tail, in
edifying sequence—
each face
aghast-
yet-serene;
each frame,
a proud silver tear-
shaped muscle,
streaked pink and
flecked green.
Moving closer,
my own face, super-
imposes on
the transparent window—
the individual,
floundering
for freedom,
always striving
for greater and more personal
modes of expression—
while these simple iterations
of the same animal
glisten eternal
under the florescents,
proud and stoic
as monuments.
When I die, I think
I will leave behind
a distinct lack;
no more reflection,
no way to preserve
or to sample
exactly who or
what this was
that once
would stop in a store
like this to wonder
which of us, person
or fish, has had
the worse luck?
