The Pond Smelt Terrible

Writhing within walls sickly with wet shade

of oily shadows, the fish float skyward.

It stinks like s**t, like human lemonade.

It stinks like s**t, but shimmers in the light.

Rainbow colors grooved one ribbon then another,

then another, then another, pink then

orange, then cyan and purple, puddles all.

Mosquitoes skate across from one side to

the other, racing as fast as they can.

And me, with dumb, child-thumbed hands I probe,

I stick my arm in, pudding skin giving way

to stagnant water, still churning my guts.

The last thing I want now, to touch myself

or anyone else with this dank swamp hand.

I feel like a murderer of beauty.