It floats tonight inside my head, arousing insomnia, phobias, stubborn bottled- ketchup boredom despite my investment in pills. By morning it’s become a golden, lumpy, bulbous branchiate—fancy-fin pet in a rotund bowl, aloof droopy-eyed feline fish. For decades now I’ve hushed its muffled murmurs as if each grumble were a pinscher growling at the mailman or a river overflowing its levee, washing away my quay. But the bowl fish, stressing about its aerator kaput in yet another blackout, kisses the meniscus open-mouthed, gills paddling, wondering, Will today’s mail be spam and bills or language from a friend?
Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Plume Poetry, Threepenny Review, Constellations, TAB Journal, I-70 Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Terrain.org, Sugar House Review, McNeese Review, and Rattle, among others. Kenton holds a PhD from UCLA and law and business degrees from Stanford. He writes from Northern California.