When I finally breathe,
I feel gutted,
limp, eyes barely open,
body still, as I
waking up slowly to social media posts of summer destinations,
fishing trips at Jacobson Park and
the white blinding light of Florida Keys
filling my pages: Sunburnt cheek bones, and fishing lines,
huge smiles captured by tiny dead fish,
“You catch it, you eat it.” I whisper half asleep to myself,
imagining bite-size fish in frying pans,
on a stick,
over the fire.
Scales. Scaleless. One gulp.
Fresh water. Salt water. Culture.
Will there be room to gut?
Thumbs sinking deep into body crevasses,
Pulling, Scraping internal life parts,
miniscule gills
on finger tips
I don’t comment just
scroll down to shards of information.
News Flash: rare, deep-water fish
found floating in the shallows of Hawaii.
Can grow to 2,000 pounds.
Searching for food?
The world’s ice box getting empty?
America first? Cov.Fe.Fe? Paris Climate Agreement?
Ugh. That Bottom Fish Feeder flooding my news feed.

Breathe little fish. Breathe little fish. Breathe little fish.
Gills treading water.

I open my eyes all the way.
I’ve been holding my breath way too long,
body bursting for gulps of oxygen,
It’s time to get up,
and start moving, again.