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Incident

Two days ago it rained fish
from a clear sky,
all kinds, silver slick and shiny,
big and small with bulgy eyes
and sharp and tiny teeth.
They shattered on tombstones
and fence posts and chimneys
and car hoods and spattered
innards all over,
and the barefoot poor kids
scooped them up to take home
to their dishwater moms for dinner.
Everyone else shut themselves
inside and watched from windows
as minnows bounced on mailboxes
and jellyfish broke open
on tin roofs for three straight hours.
For the past two days frowning
big-shouldered men
with plugs in their noses
have been shoveling fish
into wheelbarrows, dump trucks,
and little red wagons
as they gag in the sun.
But one fish fell
in my full rain-barrel,
a big one with whiskers
and great green eyes,
swimming lazy as I feed him
bits of his brothers
and he grows.
Maybe someday
he'll tell me secrets.

Bacchanal

Your party is getting out of hand. The frat boys become
satyrs, but they brought the kegs and the pretty girls so
you can't complain. There's no food, really, but you can take fruit
from the trees. The cheerleaders take off their sweaters and turn
into nymphs. Somebody throws up in your shower, but it's
only Bacchus, so that's all right. Eventually the
water turns to beer and then to piss, and the resident
sorcerer mumbles something about alchemy and fondles
the dryad who lives in the book case. Your dog looks like a

basilisk and he's trying to turn your oblivious
cat to stone. Your bedroom door is closed but you hear the
heavy breathy sounds of occupation from the other
side. It sounds like Bacchus and at least three nymphs and you don't
see that sheep who was hanging around the kitchen earlier.
You're getting pissed and wondering if you have any clean sheets.
Nope. The satyrs are using them for togas. All the nymphs
are taken, and this palace doesn't even look like your
place anymore, so you can't throw anyone out. You go

outside for some air and hear singing. You follow the sound
to a gold and marble fountain where your patio
table used to be. There's a blonde dressed in sea foam and
clouds in the water, singing a wordless song. You can just
make out that she used to be that girl who works at the
library. You went out with her once. Now she's looking
at you, smiling, and you realize she's a siren and
she's drawing you in. You can faintly tell you're doomed but that's
all right. You were beginning to think she'd never call back.