Pink Fish

I’d stumbled down the grass 
yard seeing all the light 
in the morning. I’d seen 
the grass moving lighter 
underneath, and the sky
of the world meet the gulf 
all in the hue of a pink fish
lain belly up down to die 
on top of all the water.  

Bubbles were coming 
up. The mosquitos
knew me in congruence. 
Twenty-foot-tall island reeds 
burned and stood 
guard over my parents’ 

lawn in the dawn;
their razor leaves turning
white against the fire 
blue sun coming over the dead 
yellow Pascagoula. I meditated 
for speedboats, shooting blanks 
at college ruled Jesus: the sonic artist 
in leaden olive green, militarized 
in the echo of my father’s office. 

And in the second where the record ended, 
a stranger died sleeping in indigo
beer fields. The dog sat 
black-eyed like a sermon.
The day you died, 
in the back pocket of the world, 

did you remember my descent 
to the blue-stricken 
pink-water’s edge?
Could you see the marsh 
giving way to free
the storm of my rod,

pulling me back from the burden 
of fish striking,
orange and fucked up
in the morning?

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Joseph Daniel Duffy is a writer from Gautier, Mississippi. A graduate of the University of Mississippi and the Iowa Writers' Workshop, he lives in Austin, Texas.