She’s ten
and keeps a sunfish
in a bucket
for days.
One
she caught
while camping.
She feeds it
bits
of leftover
burger,
dried worms
found
on the sidewalk,
poor,
stupid
moths
that bang
against
her bedroom
window
at night,
and ants,
lots
of ants.
It floats
in debris,
surrounded by
white walls
under a big sky
that waits,
but is occasionally
blocked
by big brown eyes
and a wide
toothy grin.
Gills in. Gills out.
Fish die
from heat,
lack of
oxygen,
birds
that watch
from rooftops,
and neglect,
as the girl
plucks flowers from
the neighbor’s garden,
jumps
for hours
on the trampoline.
hides
in the maple’s
leafy branches,
eating Skittles
stolen
from Dollar General
until she is brave
and indestructible,
all hopped up
on sugar,
and circling
the block
of a boy she likes,
riding her bike
no hands.
~ KJ
copyright @ 2024 by KJ Stevens
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