Schools of bottle green almost-women
migrate along the Mississippi,
pass through our speck of a city
on their way to
glossier shores.
We watch
their iridescent tails
flash below the waves, catch light
like sequined dresses
beneath a dripping chandelier.
The neighbor children clamber
toward the river,
their pupils large
as marbles,
their small selves pulled
by the tide, or else by some
siren song,
one our elder ears fast forgot.
The girl with my mother’s waist,
my lover’s eyes
tells me she wonders
what their scales feel like.
Piano keys? Broken teeth?
Corn husks?
Kate Kadleck is a writer and cold brew enthusiast based in Dubuque, Iowa, where she resides with her partner and their two dogs and four chickens. Her poetry has been previously featured in The Garlic Press, Tenth Muse, One Hand Clapping, Prairie Margins, and Persimmons.