Los Angelotes (The Angelfish)

“Hey Blanquecino, where you goin so fast?”
grimy halls of an underwater project.
a fish talking to its ghost? blue fin angelfish
and a paper cutout that glitters in the sun
red eyes regard tormenter, pupil less pits
full of pain.

at night, he was a wraith, invisible
a pale shadow, a shade of grey in a
world of blue and black. he prayed for
cloudy days. for in the sun how he shone
iridescent pearlescent magnificent
“Freak. Mutante”

whispers came, whisked to his ears
by warning, warming currents. “los angelotes
quieren matar el monstrou”. he
sought asylum in the dark, crevices
rocks and abandoned rooms where
love once lived

“oye lechoso”. cuts through the waves. framed
in the window, where his grandmother once
watched him play. he turns haloed gold in
light, reflecting, radiating. regrets his return?
where there is one soon blood will run
dives into the sun

through the mirror escape velocity
through the waterlogged streets, swimming
through the kelp forests. fleeing the future
fruitlessly, frustration mingles salt with fresh
water and tears inseparable. leaving
the only home he ever knew

he heads north, heedless and short of breath
no destination, looking back is a death trap
beating on against the current, sure of nothing
but a dreadful fate. this fish can’t look back
can’t think, merely swims on
ocean ends with a thud

his world stops here. shorn off by a barrier
of nothing, invisible, intangible cessation of
reality split by a plane of glass
water on one side, air on the other
he throws his body against
the end of his life

reduced to raw frustration and mad abandon
wildly testing the limits of industrial partition
energy spent and breath expelled, he floats listless
witlessly watching bubbles rise free from prison
rising sun’s beams rainbows, stockade prisms
caught in a cage of light

nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, he slowly spins to
face the sun. beating down from on high, spitting
epithets at the sky. no refuge found, no escape allowed,
lonely albino was always lost in a crowd. by himself
he always played, grandma’s fins were his safe place
a home lost to time

“Albo” echoes all around, sourceless sound
he spins, and spins again. seeking speaker
futile desire, he can hear, they are near.
no where to run anymore, fate is clear
as the wall at his back. bracing for attack
silhouetted in a sunbeam

los angelotes leisurely appear, slipping
into position, scales and eyes glistening with
anticipation. they listen for their cue
sibilant syllables spell his doom
“Asesina, mata, erradica” they come
hungry for blood

like a spectator he gazes upon himself
watching. blue and yellow bodies streaking
slow motion towards a sunlit shadow in their midst
mind clear of mist. “Here I come” mouthed
aims his bow at imminent reunions above
only family, only love

he rises past the mass, the writhing wild frenzy
fish can’t fly, can they? time to test or take his rest
escape through the waves, break the surface
keep ascending through the air, through the clouds
“Angel Albino” makes grandma proud
blood red sun welcomes him home