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79 “I Let the Fish Go” — Elizabeth Bishop The fish can survive in tanks of stale water— need no oxygen, no soluble food flakes dropped from hands, no window light to warm bodies held behind glass. The fish may live this way for weeks, pebble-eyes going darker in first days of neglect, copper scales soiling. Their bowls left in closets, toed behind dishwashers, hidden beneath heaps of clothes, the unfed fish may live for months, threatening eyes forgotten if unseen. But when they leave, the ascent of their flesh from water’s chill is rarely belly-first. Long fins and lap-layers of old coins lift from their flanks. Their bodies crest with the dull rhythm of water-logged silt, a penny of speech edging from each loosened scale. ...

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