I dreamt I was a fox fish.
What is a fox fish?
No one asked.
Which was a relief.
Because I didn’t have the words—
only the water,
and the pages that moved like jellyfish
when I reached for meaning.
My fur swayed like seagrass.
My breath was borrowed.
I sank through ink-dark currents
chasing voices that spoke in footnotes
and margins left by hands I’ll never hold.
I read books down there.
Old ones.
Ones that hiss when you open them,
as if wisdom were a pressure
your chest must learn to bear.
Somewhere above,
foxes run.
They leap. They howl. They remember warmth.
But I—
I am down here,
tail wrapped like a question mark,
reading.
Always reading.
My paws no longer scratch at dirt.
They turn pages in silence.
What is a fox fish?
A contradiction with gills.
A metaphor with scales.
A creature who could surface
but won’t—
not until the story ends
or the light returns.
Whichever comes first.
