YET I RIDE THE LITTLE HORSE

After I put my arm around the dead
swordfish that hung like a colossal slick bell

I felt blood blossoming in my cheeks when
from the cracked & serrated mouth I thought

I heard a voice tell me the world was well
past over. I wanted nothing more during the flash

of that picture being taken than complete
deafness. Drenched & fully clothed, a woman

on the dock shook her head from side to side.
A broken minnow bucket turned upside down shown

like a rain-softened pumpkin until we drank
so much we could no longer speak & kicked it

in the lagoon. But now, lying on the couch, so tired
after dancing around the room by myself, staring

at the half open Hawaiian shirt, the shock in his warbling
eyes in the picture, I remember: the dead thing really

whispered something terrifically soft—a strain that bent
out & up through the palm trees when I pushed

my fingers through its gills & a horrific light burst
all around, blinking me, & in the white sun I was ashen,

counting the wondrous things that bobbed along—
split two-headed & barely listening as I went down.

--Alex Lemon