The Marsh Fills Up

with animal goo. Residue of breath 
and struggle. The news gets worse
each day. All the fish go murky blind, 
swim into cabins of reeds. Somewhere, 
another gun, another fire. The fish can’t
find their way out. They wait for rescue
that doesn’t come. The fish end up 
at the boggy bottom, flesh-rot and nothing
but a stand of marsh grass marking 
their graves. A town of fish death 
that continues to grow. We pile 
our hurts in an inside place. They 
turn into cities, they turn into worlds. 

Share!