In a Cool Room

Here I lie, twisted in my bed,
surgically cut from here to there,
belly up in the lather of shaved ice,
behind the slant of clean glass,

cheek limp where the hook went in,
jelled eyes, a stiffened spine,
I can still remember the ocean,
the wind of water in my fins,

the easy bend of body
through warm, then cold shadows,
a turquoise wash of light
upon my luminous scales.

I was perfect in form and color,
in purpose, and now as they come
in white schools to point at me,
to check their lists, I imagine

a black numbered sign
staked near my head,
marking me up or down
dollar per precious pound.