The Hexagon Pool That I Haven’t Seen Yet

By Maya Kaye

I knock my knee down to the sharpest degree.

May my mouth declare between kotzim:

Out of my chest  leap  six  tilapia

As their holy-leavened throats run dry –

Crisping, panting, dive into the pool 

Between a complex arrangement of basalt. 

The gorge has canines made of basalt,

Buzzing with fever, to a certain degree.

Drips of ram wool at my feet, pool.

Every ripple (is (a (soft (bite (of (kotzim).

Sun-charged steam in those eyes crease dry,

[So don’t look at me], I’m just a tilapia. 

(A spiral is an eddy), (( a cycle is tilapia)),

(((and the spin of the Earth cooled lava to basalt))). 

Fish for definitives and come up dry. 

But harvest high fruits of the sweetest degree, 

Sew their seeds in soil [guarded with kotzim]

In reservoir, these loose threads pool. 

A tiny universe reflects back in every pool. 

Gazing down, I’m wearing the head of a tilapia,

Juggling  autumn’s yield amidst kotzim.

carving [a residence out of basalt],

knowing {divine magic to a sort of degree},

Diverging streams so this tongue doesn’t lap dry.

And while the flow of this life cannot turn dry –

I can’t seem to avoid any pool.

These waters endorse my sentience at every degree.

This heartbeat, moving faster than tilapia,

Erodes permanence and |columns| |of | |basalt|

So that the pinnacle of  Ema’s tongue won’t form  kotzim.

As if August isn’t the time of  >  the sharpest kotzim, 

Or this hot embrace >> leaves golden landmines dry.

In this world where our {covenant} is made of {basalt};

And the faults we release deepens the pool 

Of mitzvot, m u l t i p l y i n g like tilapia,

Embodying revolution, to a scaled degree.

A fate carved into basalt with crumbling kotzim.

The highest degree turns apologies dry.

But this is the forgiveness pool, the year of tilapia.

God forbid a girl wants to swim.