Cold Fish, or On My Inability to Love
By Alexandra Bundy

My closest, I think, to my own wedding
ceremony will be the deep sea floor

where I'd like to rest at death, I confess,
mine's a frigid bed. Constant snowfall

of decomposing fish and microscopic
organisims, the romance; bedroom eyes

of the mystery mollusk, the do you?;
open arms of the spotted suid, the yes;

nervous creatures with their jaws
unhinged, the less than conservative kiss,

I choose the deep-sea bed, I think,
above all else for the weight

for the weight upon me would feel like love.