Reverse Takoyaki (How To Uncook An Octopus)
i. Reverse salmon. How to un-swim a fish. Dewater it. The future unfolding a dead octopus splashed back to life. ii. The journey of my diary is always one-sided. I never could read that telling of the story, of the present. I never could truly go back to that day the three of us found a squid, and you called it a turtle. One-third of us later calling it happiness. iii. All life from the ocean, is a sure thing. Even when time divides us, (please) laugh triumphantly and call them waves. Sometimes, even at the grocery store in Newark, a gale blows over, stronger than that tornado I saw in Ohio, carrying the memories of strangers at sea. For this, I shall cry. Only this. iv. I am waking from that dream that another swimming history gave me. Father, where am I? Says the old crab to his one and only sea. v. They will find him so far, in another land. They will ask his name, and he will only whisper from the sand of his dry mouth all the names of his fallen, and ones that touched him gently.
Quintet For Harvard Square
i. I am a grand thief tonight at Harvard Square. My hair will grow twice as fast, like tendrils true at sea. My shadow mixes with twelve columns, stretched thirteen feet long each way. To the new silhouettes made by streetlamp, What does it mean to be the youngest student at the oldest school? Flicker, then sway. ii. Beautiful. The animals trade spots with the grass. Meanwhile, a hare crosses the long library, unnoticed, with his hind legs faster than his front. iii. Sever Hall, with the dimly cast entrance, a huge square with only one hole, like a trick, like a wall with a tunnel drawn on it. Interesting to pick here to piss, but sometimes — we see so clearly what is to be seen, only at dusk. iv. Under the earth, the men's shoulders touch so briefly, like stars kissing, and the lights color over two paintings of boats. Someone remarks how odd it is, that so much was drunk in thirst. How odd it is that this is the happiness we've always had. Later he reaches his hand up, without stretching to touch the old and scratchy ceiling where one light had landed by accident. v. At the pharmacy, I remember my shoplifting days. But it is past that now. When I see how much security is watching the check-out, relief flushes through me. I'll pay slowly, watching each coin drop into the hand of another.
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Source : You Can’t Un-Swim a Fish
