Fish Tale Tally
2024
1
I’m sitting at the table with the Teller of Tall Tales.
I’m listening to a story of him escaping a desert island.
I’m slightly distracted by a swallow gathering branches that have been blown off trees.
Who would’ve known that birds are such excellent sculptors? The way they forage mud, leaves, twigs, lint, plastic cords, pluck their own feathers to build nests, like how he built a raft with firewood and coconut shells. I’m blushing.
How silly of me, for birds don’t need a boat to go places.
2
But my tossed lasso is nowhere to be found, so I take everything at face value. Embalming ropes with the sweat of my palms, sausage casing that holds flesh, rubber sealant that smells like spoiled soup. Under the guidelines of mix ratio and curing time, I usher my swaddled speech bubbles like leading termites out into the night sky. Open bedroom door, turn off bedroom light. Turn on living room light, close bedroom door. Open balcony door, turn off living room light.
The buzzing cloud dissipates, dropping a million transparent anchors for the night.
3
I once saw a cuttlefish being captured. When it left the sea, it spat out all of its ink and appeared transparent. The cuttlefish died soon after, but its skin began to slowly emit ink dots that moved throughout the body like flocks of birds. Three hours later it was covered with intricate patterns of dots, like messages returned after death.
Return. I often return to the image of these dots coming together and breaking apart, the strange tempo and silence in which they moved, the way they sat underneath the rubbery surface.
2024
1
I’m sitting at the table with the Teller of Tall Tales.
I’m listening to a story of him escaping a desert island.
I’m slightly distracted by a swallow gathering branches that have been blown off trees.
Who would’ve known that birds are such excellent sculptors? The way they forage mud, leaves, twigs, lint, plastic cords, pluck their own feathers to build nests, like how he built a raft with firewood and coconut shells. I’m blushing.
How silly of me, for birds don’t need a boat to go places.
2
But my tossed lasso is nowhere to be found, so I take everything at face value. Embalming ropes with the sweat of my palms, sausage casing that holds flesh, rubber sealant that smells like spoiled soup. Under the guidelines of mix ratio and curing time, I usher my swaddled speech bubbles like leading termites out into the night sky. Open bedroom door, turn off bedroom light. Turn on living room light, close bedroom door. Open balcony door, turn off living room light.
The buzzing cloud dissipates, dropping a million transparent anchors for the night.
3
I once saw a cuttlefish being captured. When it left the sea, it spat out all of its ink and appeared transparent. The cuttlefish died soon after, but its skin began to slowly emit ink dots that moved throughout the body like flocks of birds. Three hours later it was covered with intricate patterns of dots, like messages returned after death.
Return. I often return to the image of these dots coming together and breaking apart, the strange tempo and silence in which they moved, the way they sat underneath the rubbery surface.
