After Buson by D. A. Powell

Shush, the priest might hear
us breaking fast together.
One fish, two fish, deadly blowfish.

 

Surprise, surprise.
I’m still alive.
Fugu, too.

 

That night 
he drank the toxic soup
he gave up on love.

 

That’s some low class fish.
Why you eat it
I’ll never know.

 

Meanwhile,
if they’re serving blowfish stew
make sure you’re the host.

 

People in this town
put on their best clothes
and eat dangerously.

 

It doesn’t matter who
the blowfish sees
he sees them cold.

 

The place they serve blowfish
may feel warm
but is not well-lit.

 

A toast to our dead friend.
He loved his blowfish.
Bottoms up!

 


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