Aquarium by Kathryn Hawkins
There is a city beneath this river.
The houses are built from crushed cans
and broken glass, plastered in fish scales.
There are no doors, but windows everywhere.
The people there have gills and glow
silver in the dark. They are digging ever deeper,
expanding downward, where the pressure
is heavy as lead and bones are imbedded
in the mud. They sew drowned leaves and lost scarves
into dresses for their daughters, make necklaces
from feathers and baby teeth. With bloated limbs,
they swarm in circles below the layers of cloud,
air, and water. They are always hungry for bread
or blood. I lived there once. Look. I still breathe
through the slits in my back.