Thursday, 21 December 2017

A poem by Claire S. Lee

Goldfish


When I want people to hate me,
        I tell them I hate dogs.
                        Their glowing canines, shiny

with drool, happy-go-lucky
            pants, thin-lipped, bellies
                        curved and fat like the underside

of a boat. My goldfish spun
circles, vertigoed, flaunted
death again. Mom said to change

waters more frequently, but
            our neighbor’s dog was fired
                        from that laughing house’s gun,

shot into our hallway, some
            dane, some shepherd, some big
                        guy who wanted a six-year-old

between his teeth. To melt,
            or to pull tendons like strings
of meat. Hiding under table, goldfish

giving me side-eye, goldfish
            capsizing, one by one. All
                        five of those small yellow things,

puckering silent, dog retreating.








Claire S. Lee is a student from Southern California. Her writing has been recognized by Tinderbox Poetry Journal and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and can be found or is forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly, Rising Phoenix Review, Blue Marble Review, and *82 Review, among others. She works as an editor for COUNTERCLOCK and as an editorial intern for The Blueshift Journal. Though she loves poetry and nonfiction, her favorite genre is historical fiction.

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