Evolution

Eisa Hashmi

In an alternate universe,
I am still a fish,
only because no one of my species
has had the bright idea to sprout
legs and walk on to land,
where there’s better air and better food.
 
Stuck in murky water, thick and muddy,
a shade somewhere between green and brown,
the same color as my mucus coated skin,
I’m floating fin to fin with wide-eyed
mouth breathers who suck in
as much dirt and sediment as they do
microscopic meals.
 
Feeling my soon to be
webbed feet push against the gills
I so desperately want to lose,
I watch a fly dance
above the surface and listen
to his muffled buzzes mocking me.
I look around, see what I’m not,
look up, see what I could be,
and convince myself into being the first.