Tuesday, and the old fish market is
a diorama of oddities. Curved whisker,
flannelled paunch, pincers groping
in the grotesque light. The sad bucket
of guts tucked efficiently under
a counter, residue of our dismay. I
remember August, when it wasn’t cool
even at daybreak and we ran, huffing
despite ourselves, the moon vaporizing
at our backs. You twisted an ankle and
we both laughed, I half-cruelly, you
with a wistful admiration for the body
holding out its hand to deadness.
Suspending itself in the cooked air.
Our knuckles and our houses, friend,
they’re going to rot. Every fiction
ends with this: the dog sniffing
unceasingly at nothing, absence
sneaking around us like a re-gifted
scarf, puzzles and clams until we are
set to burst with doing and undoing.
Until we shut ourselves quietly in.
Suzanne Marie Hopcroft's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Harpur Palate, The Normal School, Carolina Quarterly, and Southern Humanities Review. She will be attending the MFA program in poetry at the University of California, Irvine this fall.