My little plastic rod
has a string at its end
and the magnet on the string bobs
up and down. I’m fishing,
but the river is real,
the trickle is real,
the grassy bank is real.
Will my tears be dew on a landscape
where to feel means to reverberate
with what is and what isn’t?
A carp swims by and its evil eye
shoots a firework at my throat,
my eyes widen and the sparks form
an armour. My rod sticks, melts,
becomes my blood, plastic,
and the world that provided air and water
is impermeable to a non-daughter.
Did I just stray or betray?
The grass was astroturf,
the river was cling film,
the atmosphere a glass dome,
as the carp booms “go!”
Its moustache flurries and mummifies
my gasp.