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Description
Dex

It has been three days, and still I cannot bear to change it.
The water is turning a queer jaundice, and the fishy corpse
is bobbing like an upside-down moon in that thumb-hazed sky.
I threw food in the first day, before I noticed the stillness
of the red-finned thing, which I bought at Petco in a bag of plastic glass.
I put him in the blender with the blades taken out, and named him
nothing, genderless queer little floater.  He ate bloodworms, and I

kept a log for awhile, to mark the days.  I was supposed to get a plant
first, but their creeping vines and lack of eyes gave me the horrors.  A cactus.
The bloodworms are still floating at the top, along with dust, skin cells and
him.  I cannot bear to empty it, to know the sliminess and the tiny plop
at the end.  I still have the condom packet from my first time, and it's been years.
The ramen, just in case.  Three days, he has floated at the top, athletic little astronaut-

And to think that I thought the dex would help!  Fishy floater is still bob-a-nob
there, shaking with the tremors of my work.  I am convinced, though,
that I could drive if need be.  But I cannot get up and pour out the drink,
the red-flagged body that I brought home one day, and named it nothing.
But it has been long enough that I have watched the little paddler,
macabre backwards fetus with helplessly articulated hands: floating gleefully
while I drown.  I live in close quarters, and imagine that I can control the waves
and bobs.  I herd the little thing with my eyes, but still he has no name,
and I do this when there is no sleep: shake through another restless night.
The room smells of it now, and I am too ashamed to leave.  He carries my regrets
through his body, and I am too young to know how to grieve.

Description
Dex

It has been three days, and still I cannot bear to change it.
The water is turning a queer jaundice, and the fishy corpse
is bobbing like an upside-down moon in that thumb-hazed sky.
I threw food in the first day, before I noticed the stillness
of the red-finned thing, which I bought at Petco in a bag of plastic glass.
I put him in the blender with the blades taken out, and named him
nothing, genderless queer little floater.  He ate bloodworms, and I

kept a log for awhile, to mark the days.  I was supposed to get a plant
first, but their creeping vines and lack of eyes gave me the horrors.  A cactus.
The bloodworms are still floating at the top, along with dust, skin cells and
him.  I cannot bear to empty it, to know the sliminess and the tiny plop
at the end.  I still have the condom packet from my first time, and it's been years.
The ramen, just in case.  Three days, he has floated at the top, athletic little astronaut-

And to think that I thought the dex would help!  Fishy floater is still bob-a-nob
there, shaking with the tremors of my work.  I am convinced, though,
that I could drive if need be.  But I cannot get up and pour out the drink,
the red-flagged body that I brought home one day, and named it nothing.
But it has been long enough that I have watched the little paddler,
macabre backwards fetus with helplessly articulated hands: floating gleefully
while I drown.  I live in close quarters, and imagine that I can control the waves
and bobs.  I herd the little thing with my eyes, but still he has no name,
and I do this when there is no sleep: shake through another restless night.
The room smells of it now, and I am too ashamed to leave.  He carries my regrets
through his body, and I am too young to know how to grieve.