Evening Teeth
by Wilson Diehl


On his thirtieth birthday
he left the party and the corner bar

packed with bodies
warm and humid,

smelling like wet salt
on the rim of a glass,

the rim of a lip
unkissed for months-

Out on the sidewalk-seeking air-
the hot breath of rain radiates

and

in the window next door
plump fish swim in tiny circles

illuminated by florescent lights
twenty-four hours a day.

Their small mouths also
work in circles, saying nothing.

Gold-mottled mutes
enjoying the eternity of daylight.

The sun never sets.
They do not rest.

These fish do not know darkness.



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Wilson Diehl is a poet and essayist from the lovely and underrated state of Iowa. She has an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Iowa and a cat named Turtle from the Madison, Wisconsin Humane Society.