Love is a Fish
With Apologies to Lyndi

Love is not a bird
bursting out of my body
at the sound of a voice,
the touch of a hand.

No, love is a fish,
flopping on dry land,
gasping for air,
killing flies with its stink.

And I’m a fisherman,
good only for telling tails,
about the ones that got away
(they were THIS big).

So how did I catch you?

published in Issue 1 of Wilder Literature

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