I am the rough fish
that escaped the winterkill.
somewhere, at the bottom of the lake
the light reached me, trickling
through a hole in the ice.
my lateral line tells me
to go higher, and
I go higher.
I am the rough fish;
the dandelion of ichthyology.
I’ve swum so far now,
they find me
all of me
scattered in devil’s lake.
reel me in, all my parts,
and put me in a creel.
I am the winterkill.
I am the sun turned white. I am
the bloated body of a bowfin,
my ribs exposed through my
skin. I am the deathless cold
haunting this body, this lake
since the pleistocene, splitting—
like rivers through teeth.
and I am the rough fish,
my otoliths sensing
the breathing darkness around
me. I am the rough fish
always swimming;
the annuli of my scales
running out of space
to count my winterkills.
I am the rough
fin, rough water,
rough winter:
I am the kill,
I am the fish.
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