This was Written by a Fish
My people swam in lakes – stealing whatever.
Their bodies make our silt. A moving grave,
fitting for a stream. My people – hunted.
A few fled. Their children don’t know their homeland.
There are records, but they aren’t studied.
Time is allotted to the important, not the swept.
My people were old. We don’t know what they looked like.
Travelers went “home” and found a collection of art,
but it wasn’t ours. Couldn’t have been our parents nor theirs.
Seashells and bones, strewn in loops amongst others.
Some decided to worship this.
Patrick Key started writing seriously later in life, thanks to the help of a poetry class during his undergraduate years. His interests revolve around the absurdity of life and love, disillusionment, and the human tendency to struggle with impossibilities. His works have appeared in The Corner Club Press, The Penwood Review, and Argus.