The Waiting Consciousness of Dead Fish

The carwash is lined with several species of dead fish whose silvery teeth reflect the dreams of maiden aunts rusting away in the back rooms of yesterday's newspaper headlines. What is one to say? After all, any excuse would be poor justification, yet is has been observed that the gaze of a well-formed trout, though deceased to the point of putrefaction, was nonetheless so overcome by the sheer eloquence of one aunt's vision that he truly believed himself to be swimming upstream once more. And his is only one instance of the singularity and unique power of their visions. Other dreams which have informed what we might call the waiting consciousness of dead fish have been more violent: mad rape involving a sand goose and several other creatures of undetermined species; car accidents involving the most exquisite mutilation of driver and metal; the matter of incest in proper Boston families will be noted but discourse avoided; several murders have been recorded by a prominent philatelist whose drawings of same have been submitted to the Postal Authorities for consideration as a series of offset stamps, a perfect choice for those members of the National Association who collect topicals. (What the fish have to say about this matter will be taken up when their writ is prepared for court.) In the meantime, they rest fitfully while the soap foams and swirls about their plump little bodies, washing each scale clean so that it may be measured and fitted with a lustrous garment of finest cox-comb and coarse ground salt.