Fish That Fly

Pinpricks of turquoise arc across the black,

dislodged stars thundering down into the dingy.

 

Pattering against the plastic,

a hundred heartbeats, wrapped and scaled.

 

Darkness has encroached,

when the slaps against the water, ricochet like unexpected gunshots.

 

Flashes of artificial sunlight echo from our lanterns

reassuring us. We are not being attacked by a thousand tiny musket barrels.

 

They fly with fins for wings,

as if the sea had held them captive in her embrace for far too long.

 

Salty air rakes gills, promising suffocation.

 

Captive on the grimy floor beneath our feet,

They angulate their bodies in a dance to the death.

 

Disbelief and wonder are held captive on our tongues,

until the realization, that oblivion waits under our feet,

surfaces in our minds.

 

Hands become lifelines,

Scooping sapphire pebbles from between plastic,

returning the gift of flight.

 

The blackness swallows them,

And all that is left is the plink of tiny azure fingers,

finding their way dimly across a murky set of keys.

 

The stars emblazoned across the sky,

appear dimmed, now that fallen ones have dusted our fingers,

and drowned in the midnight ebony.

 

We slice our way through liquid caverns,

painting the absence of light with tiny sequined bodies,

a thousand acrobats reflected in our eyes.