I was the first to discover the water
in his lungs Stale light ensnared
in his whited-out open eyes A fish
still pooling in his top hat I flung it back
into the lake What do fishes know
about the synonymity of drinking and
drowning? The lock behind his back
was open I blinked once
and the heavy chain he was wrapped in
turned into purple flowers I pressed
my mouth against his belly
and I said I am sorry I don’t know
I don’t know any magic nor the names of
fishes or flowers But others will come soon
Konstantinos Patrinos is a Greek-German writer. His work has appeared in RHINO, Indianapolis Review, Hunger Mountain Review, Saranac, BoomerLitMag and others. He lives in Berlin and works as a high school teacher for political science and philosophy.
