< Previous | Contents | Next >
I fly my kite at night. Light, it wraps its thread around the neck of sleeping folk and they drop like buttons into the briny where they float a bit then sink to meet the flat fish on the slabs that scare me half to death, their eyes set atop, unnatural I say, but Mother says, ‘How much for three flounder?’ The folk gander, but not like these slippery critters that stare straight up like Grandad in his casket that time he sprung half to life. He smelt like fish to kiss, or they smell like him. You know rot when you feel it. Still hot with life just left. Flounder and Grandad and sleeping folk strung to my kite drifting at night.