Near Misses
       

After a bad date
I slip into the pet store
for the air conditioning.

When I knock over an empry fishbowl
the dogs all turn to look,
tongues lolling, owners tugging.

A clerk points to the fat black goldfish
with billowy cheeks—they're on sale.
That one's name is Winston Churchill.

Winston sidles up to the glass and looks at me.
He puffs and his round mouth blows bubbles
like pipe smoke. I'll take him, I say.

Then Winston and I are hitchhiking off-highway
near the Cracker Barrel where the cowhands
eat steak, sober.

A man named Hank gives us a ride.
I squeeze next to his toothless father
on the seat. The father places a hand

on my bare thigh. He starts talking
about the Pacific Theatre and I can't
gather the courage to shake off his hand,

so I let it rest there while he recalls
manning the 50 Cal after everyone else
was dead. Almost lost my leg, he says,

lifting his jeans to the knee. A round red scar
on his shin is a cluster of bark, the skin raised
and dented. He pats my thigh. What about you,

little one? Any scars to show an old man?
A little leak springs in Winston's bag
and I cover it with my thumb. Cut it, Dad,

Hank sighs, and pulls up to my building.
Be safe out there. He reaches past his father
to pull the door shut behind me.

I give Winston a tour of my small apartment
and plop him in a vase. Welcome home.
He has a small white line along his belly

probably from that knife flashed by a hungry man.
I look at the jagged cut along my forearm
from fighting with the other fish.

Winston mouths at the food I sprinkle
and I watch him
until dark.

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Copyright © 2019 Alysse McCanna All rights reserved
from CutBank
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission