BURNING HOUSE PRESS

I speak in Fish

Alone I float, weightless
under the ripples, around
the muffled laughter darting
through the water, as if
the sounds fought its way
to present itself to my ears.
Long legs of white, brown, black,
are pale with a hue of blue.
Light from above pokes
through like shards,
breaking, scattering against
the shadows of the deep.
I look up to my father and mother
standing above the water,
now different than from
my recollection, they glance
toward me then not.
They are disfigured
by the ripples in a form
constantly changing, never
returning to the shape they
once were. They look unfamiliar.
I open my mouth and I speak
in fish with soundless bubbles,
the language of gravenche
and beyşehir bleak, yet I wonder how
they can tell that they
are so dear.
The water grows quiet,
the legs are all gone,
I have been here too long,
my skin wrinkles.
I see that my father and mother
too have gone, no more than
a memory, and the ripples
of a powder blue sky fade
darker to black, a universe
quiet and alone. I still look up
into the emptiness,
breathless, wondering
what I did to make them all leave.

B. A. Varghese graduated from Polytechnic University (New York) with a degree in Electrical Engineering and is currently working in the Information Technology field. Inspired to explore his literary side, he has earned a B.A. in English from the University of South Florida. His works have appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Apalachee Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and other literary journals. (www.bavarghese.com)…