Perch

by Mike Pacey

Nov. 18, 1851: Deacon Brown told me today of a tall, raw–boned fellow by the name of Hosmer who . . . held up a little perch in sport above his face, to show what he had got. At that moment the perch wiggled and dropped right down his throat foremost, nearly suffocated him . . .

June 3, 1856: Dr. Heywood worked over him a fortnight . . . He got little compassion generally, and the nickname “Perch” into the bargain.  Think of going to bed for fourteen nights with a perch, his fins set, scales dissolving in your throat!  What dreams!
What waking thoughts!

A fish out-of-water tale — lodged
halfway down one man’s gullet —
fourteen days and nights
of thin broth, gilled breath;
defecating scales and fish-bones.
Perched in the thick
of your throat — hooked, a catch:
reel him in! — that tickle in your craw . . .
a fin?  Eyes staring open, unable
to sleep, speak.  Parched.
All day in the bath-tub, mouth ajar,
trying to coax it out with lures, worms.
Oddly drawn to small ponds.
Fitful dreams: drowning in muddy water,
fish surfacing, working your mouth
by pulling strings.

Become one — poached;
scaly skin, fishy thoughts —
asking, Will this never pass?
Knowing from now on
you’re forever Perch.