Fish

This

is how I imagine it happens.

You touch your fingers together, so softly, so lightly,

until you can’t feel them. You pull them away,

and yet they are still held together by a creamy

silver line. It flows and rolls but never thins, never thins.

And then, your hands move as if they’ve become ballerinas,

ever tall, ever graceful. And you make motions that I

could never recreate alone, without your shining silver life.

Then

You reach down to your feet and fashion the line into

loops around your toes. And then you are your

own puppet-master, pulling and fashioning your body

to your will. And suddenly you have made yourself a fish,

laden with glistening, mirror-like scales. And I think,

if I could have just one such treasure,

I would surely be happy.