The catch of the day is the feast of tomorrow
The wet smell from the market lingers
In fish pies, sushi bars and chip shops
The catch of the day is the banquet of tomorrow.
Hanging by their fins inhaling smoke
They don’t look appetizing when raw
I never thought I would like eating fish
Hanging by their fins inhaling smoke
Their home was a large ocean
linked by streaming rivers and crashing waterfalls
Now they’re dead, they’ve travelled
Further then they ever did at sea where
Their home was a large ocean
About the Creator
Chloe Gilholy
Former healthcare worker and lab worker from Oxfordshire. Author of ten books including Drinking Poetry and Game of Mass Destruction. Travelled to over 20 countries.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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