Concetta Principe
Fishbowl of what aches
a rusted nail
dying in its bed
of wormed wood
feels nothing
Fishbowl of nothing
is not nothing but the tremors
of something
saints or Danish princes whine about
Fishbowl of the limit of saying
nothing is not something
to share with no one
but the self ghosted by Hamlet’s question
what is your problem? they said
Fishbowl of faith
if there is a saint or Dane whose thorn
torments him I, nail, am the verb
of his torment
take that aporia
Fishbowl of melodrama
even the thorn of
things inside, rays of every tiny
parting, thus, the black sun burns itself out
Fishbowl of the obscene thickness of guilt
I am sorry for being
I am sorry for breathing
I am so sorry for doing nothing
I am so—
Fishbowl in retrospect
the insignificance of the “I”
from crown to toe
kept upright in the veined woods of life
the subject out of joint
Fishbowl of bathrooms as sanctuaries from torment
broken promises like
broken glasses or
civilizations
I, nail, adjure you
Fishbowl of jokes
two fish
circling around a pure and joyous mystery
that is how the world spins
not here
Fishbowl of not here
imprisoned by nowhere, just
sideways thinking
a toe in the coffin
oxygen, goddamn it
Fishbowl in retrospect
bloor subway, a river
of strong social current turning
its gaze from her tortured
Ophelia love for pansies—anonymous
Fishbowl of a mirror
reflections in the glass darkly,
she is tarnished
by this river of
bad logic, they said
at least it is logic, she thought
Fishbowl of subways
fire in the hole
evental
of the self
Jack’s crown shatters through the tunnels
in her face
Fishbowl in retrospect
believe me the world
spins grass does the downward
dog and people rise at dawn
without breaking
Fishbowl of the psych ward
to be that sunlight
not indifferent to this ruin
of the self
Fishbowl of bad logic
birds chattering
above her iron hold on the floor boards
excruciating his every foot step
wood like water
Fishbowl of Zoloft
mental helium
zippers the mind, a violin playing purple skies
as limbs waltz back and forth
she is an event horizon
Fishbowl in retrospect
there is no greater darkness than
brilliance sheered away by
the void in her
Fishbowl of More Zoloft
my heart is a dog
he said
it will not heal
he laughed
Fishbowl in retrospect
humor fled
when the clown arrived and her face cracked,
pavement in winter
Fishbowl of a dog
cut me
oh
cut me
out of here
Fishbowl of Zoloft dreams
soft bed of night, sweet
light of Orion’s shield and
glittering knife
cutlery of soul murder
Fishbowl in retrospect
to take every dream
or every dawn, to make every effort
to wait for dear life, to hold tight
to start an engine that is broken, logic that
Fishbowl of faith
the solid chair
melts into air
and sits in the lap of the table, purring
inches of oxygen, our daily rations
Fishbowl in retrospect
how do you mourn the death
of something that has not died in you
but cannot live there, either?
Fishbowl of living there
I am the hardware
for heavy water
about to bed uranium
hear my thinking roar
Fishbowl in retrospect
no matter where it shivers
or how violently it utters,
we are nailed
so nailed
Fishbowl of pink pansies in a vase on the windowsill
there is a window
when nothing changes
through which a bird flies
catching a wave
i want
Fishbowl of want
to begin again
Fishbowl of desire
to have and hold
Fishbowl of feeling
to take what nails
from between the bones
Concetta Principe is a published writer of poetry and fiction with a PhD from the humanities program at York University. An ongoing engagement with psychoanalysis, and specifically Lacanian psychoanalysis, informs her creative projects and her scholarly work. She has published articles on trauma in twentieth century philosophy, literature and film in scholarly journals. Her poetry and short prose has appeared in Canadian literary journals and her most recent collection of poetry, walking, came out with DC Books in 2013.