Becoming (from memory and a Hocąk tale)
some futile thing that can’t be secured
(attention or a plastic toy – does it matter?)
he slams his bedroom door
stands for a long moment before
the goldfish bowl
and knocks (a part of him,
split off, will call it an accident, knowing it isn’t)
the food container
into the water – their small happy mouths
open and open
(greedily we fill ourselves with regret)
the fish float on the surface
suddenly he finds it hard to breathe
two men go out hunting
their quarry (a racoon, or a spirit in disguise)
disappears into the hollow
of an immense tree and they find there
a fish
one plucks it out and cooks it
offers morsels to the other, who isn’t sure
but wanting what his friend has, he takes and eats
immediately becoming
unbearably thirsty
he drinks but no water is enough
frantic, he wades out into the river
scales cover his skin, gills open in his neck
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