33
Measures of Viability
Agatha Beins
Sometimes they die as a fish: still,
wet, only halfway here and slippery
dreaming of gills. Sometimes they slide
through innocent as milk and cookies.
They are always ravenous.
Some die as delight.
Some die carnivorous. Some die
black. Some die as roses, trying
to find a way back
to the bud’s tight lips past
the thorns that are not thorns, at least
according to the biologist, though your hands
may disagree. Some die as a name
that inks your tongue like
a peeled red beet. Some die in the
subjunctive, just a wish
for a different future: some would
die, some would die as if.