| MICHAEL
CONLEY Aquarium Third Prize Winner, SLQ Poetry
Competition (April 2010) A man in a blue coat walks
into A & E and gets in line. The
Tannoy is broken; a fractured buzz percolates. He lifts
his shirt for the nurse and mouths My stomach
has become an aquarium. She nods and hits the
button. He strips, taps the tinted glass that
runs from collar to waist. The
doctor kneels and squints. Around a tiny
sandcastle, three goldfish drift like
skeleton ships. This is most unusual,
the doctor says. The man is told to drink as
much as he pisses and avoid contact sports.
He doesn’t name them straightaway, but after the
third month they are Sylvia, Robert and
John, after his mother and
brothers. It becomes a talking point
at dinner parties. He feels more attractive to
women, though he stops eating seafood, out of
respect. One day, Sylvia is missing. He
feels sad. A one night stand notices a
crack In the tank. He goes back
to the hospital. This is most unusual says the doctor. It is a different doctor. I know says the man. He is sent home with a roll
of masking tape. John and Robert seem lonely
without Sylvia. ©
Michael Conley 2010 | 
