Ideas and thoughts are jammed in my head,
silver angelfish jostling for the remains of water in a funnel,
slowly trickling onto paper.
I want the fish but only orphan scales make it to paper
Without water, fish may gasp and twitch, jammed together
And I hope they do not suffocate,
but more time is necessary to make my poems rivers
housed in the tropics. I need a saw to cut the tube
of the funnel, cut the precision
so my fish can jump to open water.
Race and gender issues drown us with too little oxygen
in open air. We would all swim better in schools
of listening, compassion on our dorsal fins.