I have no idea why.
I only know I couldn’t
breathe
in my small town;
I wasn’t the only one.
It’s been 35 years since I
lived there.
The only thing I really miss
is the fried chicken from
Uncle Nicky’s.
I try not to indulge in
nostalgia.
I have few illusions.
There was one gathering
a few years after
graduation.
It was tragic.
I won’t go into details.
For some people,
high school never ends.
I’ve seen one old classmate
since then,
one of my closest friends,
working on campus—
a tradesman who used to be
an artist.
Perhaps he is still.
Somehow I’ve heard the
occasional rumour.
I know he was married
to one of the most beautiful
girls in town,
that he got divorced a few
years later,
that he still skateboards.
I know who he was.
I have no idea how.
Perhaps we all stay the same
in all the important ways:
the seeds of our flowering
the wounds that once seemed
so deep.
I
still have no idea why they called me fish.
