under two birch trees in the corner of my yard

under two birch trees in the corner of my yard

 

are the graves of goldfish    their slimy-softness dissolved in

jewelry boxes and gift card tins.  There’s also three octopuses     all named Oliver    and

my seven-year-old self has entombed each gray     miniature mucous-body

for every ghostly float to the

top

of the tank.     

 

Lying under those trees on patchy     browning     grass

on top of sea pulps in shallow graves  the silenced triple heartbeats of each Oliver

feel the cut of the dull sky     breathe the sweetness of

crisp caramelized leaves     hear their scratch and rustle.

 

falling asleep dreaming about a multitude of Olivers     their tentacles clinging to

the floorboards in my house     beaks scratching my bedroom walls.