Prick of the Spindle: Poetry: Wattles: Fish Jumping

Fish Jumping
by Lafayette Wattles

You handled the greenest
part of us
as if it might bruise,
while I choked
on a red-hot
jalapeno heart.

Those three fat
years of sin, bloated
on the sweetness
of our flesh.

Our daughter's birth:
me holding you holding
her, that fiery dragon
clawing my chest.

Our one time
camping at the gorge:
you with your water-
body; us reliving
the honeymoon lagoon,
the flying fish
like homesick
slivers of moon.

But now this, casket-
closing time.
You in the dark;
me overcome by the quiet
beauty of things familiar;
my heart, like fish jumping,
silver, moonlit, aglow,
trying to get back to you.

Lafayette Wattles has been a factory worker, a banker, a jeweler; he's sold women's shoes, has been a Production Assistant on a film crew, and has also been a teacher. He has five college degrees, most of which have proven useless, although he's hoping his most recent, an MFA in Creative Writing from Spalding University, will change that once and for all. Lafayette has won a few regional poetry contests and has had his work published in several journals, most recently or forthcoming in Blood Lotus, Shit Creek Review, Runes , and The Louisville Review.