the hall of fish 
& how i learned to swim

carve gills & throw me 
back into the ocean-- paint
my face with orange & blue &
white stripes up my sides--
we were made of wood so 
we could float--
this is how my father carried
me to my room at night--
a beer in one hand in a back stroke
down a yellow painted
ocean--

i grew up swimming
down the hall of fish--
my father's collection
of carved wooden fishes
from an artist at the farmer's market 
up the street-- a man
who kept everyone's gills
in a trailer-- i met him
only once but i can't remember
his face--

for some reason i recall
him as a sea otter-- slicked
back hair & black snout--
other times he has a forehead
like a mahi-mahi--
mouth open to the wind
through the market grove--
a zephyr
between the tents of vendors--

the art of swimming is
something that takes practice--
my father would pick me up
& we would open the green
door from the sun room--
carve our wooden gills
& wriggle between the wooden
bodies hanging on the walls
all the way down to my room--

an octopus garden--
the whistle of a hinge--
our god had the hands of a fish carver
living out of a trailer of his children--
you with the flounder body--
& you with red lobster faces--

carpet into sand & night into
abyss-- this hallway cuts itself
deep into the hull of the house--
a trench-- a memorial
to the idea of being taught
again how to swim--

these legs into fin--
my father again a fish market trader--
finding a new place on the wall
to hide a child--

our ocean was a yellow one--
our bodies destined to float--
our hallway wore darkness
like the belly of a stone--
on our back we coasted
to our beds-- dreamed of a god
with a pocket knife
& a hunk of wood in the market
groove
where the wind pulled the branches
of the willow trees like fish tails--

read me a story about swimming backwards--
carry me again father
like you would a beer bottle--
carve my gills for me--

let's practice swimming 
in the hall--