Theo is mostly belly up,
but in the case of a sound or a box
made of cardboard, he likes to be
ready for anything out of water.
And by ready, I mean that he
plans to meet his enemies
eyes open.
He keeps arms spread wide
while he’s flat on the floor.
Paws curl like prawns and then
fan out as fish fins, pausing
between strokes, about to
swim down the bamboo beneath us.
He’ll get caught in the reeds
of our wool, have to readjust,
open his gills wide, make a complaint,
start again.
It makes me wonder what he would
be like as an actual fish. If he’d
still move slow and happy, grinning
forehead into ears,
shaping the topography
of worry wrinkles into waves.
If his body still remembers its
first fish existence.
If all bodies, for that matter,
remember the carbon of their tissues
swinging from trees, honey dripping
down fur, sticking nakedness
to dirt devoid of self-consciousness.
Membranes that migrated
above deserts into ice
age until there was no
space left for air five times over
again we’re here.
Will his dog fish body remember
the quiet closing of breath?