Dropped, bobbed, and quickly cooled,
as blood, bile, words that burned in the blood,
floating through tissue and the red refuse,
limp shrimp sliced from the sow trout’s belly.

It lay still secondarily and flicked
as she just nineteen churned the burning bowl
and in the flush of recognition
tried desperate trinitaria to ease
December’s sudden presence in the room.

Fifty years later she related it,
my ten-day daughter dozing on her shoulder,
widow’s scent soaking impressionable pores.

Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The 2River View and PILGRIM.

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