50s Traditional
The boy takes a girl to his bed, where he
gifts her a bucket of silvery fish
Then he goes off to work, or wherever,
and the fish make her body their home.
Mostly they die, but this one starts to grow
Blows up her belly like a big rubber ball.
In time, she explodes into bits, the ball
bursts, she can’t stop her sobbing. Although he
gifts her a bucket of roses that grow
into bushes, that give birth to more fishes
engulfing their lives with the odors of home:
oatmeal, chocolate, puppies… Wherever
she steps she is sinking in quicksand, wherever
she looks, dirt. She gathers her dreams in a bowl
of rose petals, finds kittens, carries them home
in her pockets. Upset by their mewling, he
takes off in his Tesla, searching for oceans
teaming with fish, pearly fish, the ones sure to grow
into classical beauties, with nipples that grow
into bottles of whisky. Wherever
he thought he was fishing, it wasn’t for goldfish
or miniature sharks you can keep in a bowl.
He’s after the real thing. The Antarctic Whale. He
struggles, starves, freezes, but does make it home,
at least to the address he used to call home,
whale meat in hand. Wife unimpressed. They grow
so far apart, they can’t see one another. He
moves out of town, out of state. Wherever
he goes, old memories haunt him. He bawls
like a baby through oceans now empty of fish
while she walks into walls, dreaming of romance
wondering if he will ever come home
she drops twenty rose petals into a bowl
one by one, waiting to see if they’ll grow
into babies like the fish used to do. Wherever
you are, my beloved, I feel you. He
feels her too, but she smells like a fish. He
cannot grow roses in her version of home. Wherever
—whenever— NO. He will never “play ball.”
Author: Joan Dobbie
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