I don’t care that you killed all the blue-finned tuna,
pointing out that they shine like expensive tin foil
and that you like the taste best of all, the fat underbelly of those
damn fish who don’t know how to turn their heads.
Do you remember all those eyes in the Mediterranean,
dark eyes surrounded by wrinkled blue bodies? No one
had time to feel lonely until you swam with the
fish once, telling them you know where they can go to touch
the moon, to let its light reflect delicate veins
on them. “You won’t miss your scales at all,” you promised,
“we’ll all be old together and let time trickle over us.”
But the fish soon got tired of the clock always moving,
always going forward one second more and they huddled
together, not daring to move because following time
is how you and I are going to end but never them.
-Martha Hunter is a sophomore studying English at UTC.
Sequoya Review 