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June 25, 2026

Two Poems

Catherine Weiss

Fishtank

As kids, we kept tetras (boring),

a cory or two (better),

and memorably, a mystery snail

who’d crawl up the filter and jump—

He’d go repeatedly, which delighted us,

but I have since learned from Reddit

his antics may have been a distress behavior.

A leaping snail might be starving,

or trying to escape a poorly maintained tank,

no air to breathe. Sometimes it’s overcrowding.

I worry our snail was tired of being alone.

Once I rode the L six stops

past midnight to meet a Craigslist stranger

who asked to paint my portrait,

as long as I was wearing white.

 

 

 

Fifteen

I stole my roommate’s deodorant.

She asked me if I had taken it.

I said, no, why? She said,

You did. It’s right there.

Pointing to the Secret:

Powder Fresh on my dresser.

I kept repeating, that one

was mine but maybe hers fell

behind the desk. Everybody

knew everybody knew.

Some nights I feel such pungent

shame over this incident

I remind myself I’ve never

run anyone over with my car.