I found a small perch

stuck in the reeds of a ditch

I used to play in—tried

to untangle him, to carry body

back to lakebed home. Instead, I

suffocated him in broad daylight.

And I did not bury him.

When something dies, enzymes

puff themselves free, spurt

chemical warnings for those near

to stay alert, stay vigilant—

fight or flee—fawn or freeze.

Fatty acids broken down

into perfume spritzes smell

like baked camembert—deliver

a too-sweet bouquet of lilies

that decays in the wind. But I

know, when you finally come close,

my insides will still be rotting—

These hands that have taken are

also hands that still bleed, stink—

are still sliced open—soul still

unraveling in those blush-pink fins—