Issue 14 • 2011



come apart


by Kat Dixon





& listen


for the fault line patterning the wallpaper,

counting meter on the tinkling fish tank walls.  Our


fish now a purpled liver.  Wanting catalogue, each

shallow wave is swallowed in a foreign


language, in long sentences and lists.

(We are speaking now, but through


a window.)


On your lip, a solid hour of parked car accidents.

Our fish now a carwash.  Now a storm.  Stay —



stay at least until the hot water gives out, when,

pinched at the gills, I will open you ten at a time.








Kat Dixon is poetry editor of Divine Dirt Quarterly and author of four chaps, including Don’t Go Fish (Maverick Duck Press) and Birding (Thunderclap Press).  She may be found blinking at