We lay flat in cool grass. Above the tops of the trees shapes were turning, the vast shark-like bodies of bomber jets prowling the sky. They reminded me of something, so at last I had a story to tell: My parents had a fish tank, and one night they came home to find the plecostomus sucking the angelfish. A week later the angelfish was dead, and the plecostomus went back to his job of cleaning the slime from the walls of the tank.

What the hell kind of story is that, when we are lying here terrified of bombs, my friends cried. It’s a true story, I replied.

-prose poem by Sarah Fran Wisby

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