There’s a line in my journal called “The Secret to Stronger Relationships,” but the page is blank,
and I’m wondering if I lost something important, family ties, or secrets—I recall being brave less
than five times in my life, like when a mahimahi concedes, you’re supposed to stab its gills with
a knife over and over to suffocate it quicker, it’s called being humane, but when is not being able
to breathe kinder…I stop reeling when I remember love is eternal, when the leader kisses the
top of the rod, and I pull line over line trying to determine which of us is stronger, so I use two
hands, cleave a wide arch over the railing, until something deceived is caught, pulled out of its
comfort zone before you stun it, billy clubbing its apex above the eyes, as it spasms, its body
folds, almost jackknifes, like two hands in prayer, and I can’t help wondering if it’s figuring out
how to get out of this situation, if it remembers landing on a sun-fried deck, twisting, catapulting
into the Pacific cool waters, finning away, faster, deeper into the channel’s darkest blue where
you drop the aluminum club that’s still clanging in my head, the club keeps ringing, it’s a tool,
once a burglar's crowbar, but police have used it to take things, too–Tyre Nichols, George
Floyd, Andre Hill, Freddie Gray—their colors so vibrant greens and yellows, cool blues and
silver, like you never wanted them to be caught because you can’t help wondering why driving a
car or walking on the street can be fatal, so you hope no one catches anymore fish, killing their
chromatophores, the cells that produce their colors, you never want to stand next to something
caught and say nothing, not come to its aid
and I’m wondering if I lost something important, family ties, or secrets—I recall being brave less
than five times in my life, like when a mahimahi concedes, you’re supposed to stab its gills with
a knife over and over to suffocate it quicker, it’s called being humane, but when is not being able
to breathe kinder…I stop reeling when I remember love is eternal, when the leader kisses the
top of the rod, and I pull line over line trying to determine which of us is stronger, so I use two
hands, cleave a wide arch over the railing, until something deceived is caught, pulled out of its
comfort zone before you stun it, billy clubbing its apex above the eyes, as it spasms, its body
folds, almost jackknifes, like two hands in prayer, and I can’t help wondering if it’s figuring out
how to get out of this situation, if it remembers landing on a sun-fried deck, twisting, catapulting
into the Pacific cool waters, finning away, faster, deeper into the channel’s darkest blue where
you drop the aluminum club that’s still clanging in my head, the club keeps ringing, it’s a tool,
once a burglar's crowbar, but police have used it to take things, too–Tyre Nichols, George
Floyd, Andre Hill, Freddie Gray—their colors so vibrant greens and yellows, cool blues and
silver, like you never wanted them to be caught because you can’t help wondering why driving a
car or walking on the street can be fatal, so you hope no one catches anymore fish, killing their
chromatophores, the cells that produce their colors, you never want to stand next to something
caught and say nothing, not come to its aid
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