Glimmer

words by Jenny Vu

Fish don’t smell when it’s cold enough.

When it’s an early February and the water begins to awaken

The silver creatures can only sense the simmering warmth of the surface water and 

Venture out into the depths that they had shied away from in the winter

For fear of the thick, icy water soothing their muscles 

Until they can move no longer

And their sight dims 

Into a pleasant never ending sleep

These fish on the shore 

Glittering in the bright noon sun 

Do not smell

Some have been eaten, 

Their ribs sharp and dried from an onslaught of sunlight and stripping air

Their flesh tough and devoid of the fluids that pushed them through the current

Their scales dull like scratched steel

Some have just washed ashore

Their flesh still elastic when touched

Their eyes are still clear gelatin

And they will be lined further up in the sand by the time the sun sets

Pushed by the same tides that swept them

I look out into the water

Glints of white bellies flashing 

Soon to join the rest on the soft sand

These poor fools

The cold season has not ended yet.