Modern Gargoyle

Harrison Fisher

Beyond the sliding door,
the closing room, where
no one we have ever known
has been. We imagine it
is standing still, although
we feel its movement, the
drone of its slow convergence
on no one we have ever known.

A woman remember, herself,
a moral exercise. Newer nails
are holding down the floor.
A woman hammers at the walls
now. Nails.

Tropical fish are sensitive
to extremes of temperature.
Whoever this is that, groping,
touches me, I warn you:
I do not speak, It is
the hottest night of summer
and I sleep next to the fan,
I do not speak. That part of me
that, touching me, is
tropical fish is killed
by extremes during the night.
I warn you. I awaken, and find
I have been sloughing off scales
all night.

The light cloud descends,
The grey horn crowns.

[This poem first appeared in Anyart Journal]

 

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