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the story of the walking fish (8 of 17)
On my eighteenth birthday, the cloud was like Otara Creek,
gray and hazel, the colour of 1920’s journal films.
No one remembered anyway, they don’t have to remember.
Birthday is money’s, lucky people’s, not even mine.
I looked at him. E-flat harmonic minor scale, my flute was
swimming. He held his trombone, shining into my eyes, my
heart. (He was holding my heart.)
And he passed me by.
(If he was serious when he looked at me.)
(Because I pretend that I didn’t know he was looking at me.)
Both him and myself
When I got home I couldn’t find my baby fish.
She was just one year old, golden-orange.
(I was wondering)
(If I could go outside)
(Would I be freer)
(Than in the water)
(So I jumped out)
On my eighteenth birthday
(The fish jar fell on the floor, broken)
(Broke my body)
Broke my heart
The fish was one year old.
I was eighteen years old.
There was no birthday, no blessing, no love.
(I just wanted to fly away)
BUT (you and me?) just don’t have wings to fly.