Freckled Fish

Fish that preferred
the polka to the stripe,

that lifted heavy, sexless
eggs into its mouth,

proud and protective,
histrionic and hoarding

underwater drama
into the copper

of its fins. Rotten
with beauty, hideous,

I tell you,
with its fickle

commitment
to camouflage,

its feathered
flair, its golden-silver

startle of sky—
a reflection slid between

waves, the way
a note is slid beneath

a bedroom door. I never
meant to read it,

Lord, forgive me—
the fish, it was yours.