A new poem by Lily Holloway.
Ali dies of cancer and I am not allowed to visit
Anxious in small groups, tetras will start nibbling
at their tank-mates. I never see it happening.
No piece of fin floating up, no bone stark
against the charcoal filter. They must be
swimming in it, though, in the parts
of once shimmering bodies. Atoms
of eye or tail rushing through
gills. It’s a quiet horror,
waking up to
like a magic trick
or godwit migration.
We could say she is gone now
because the world was anxious to take
her back into itself and as a child I would
understand, I am proof enough of what remains.
Better to have left in the night than be pulled apart.
Better a ghost ship than to rip at twin bodies in the dark.
The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are now being accepted until 31 January 2023. Please send up to three poems in a Word or PDF document to firstname.lastname@example.org.