The Sunday poem, by Connor McNabb

2026-01-31 - 16:09

Every Eel in the Avon Goes to the Ocean to Die I wake up late you make me finish while I think we should go feed the eels you empty the dishwasher I top up the bird feeder and suggest that we go feed the eels I hand you your towel you dry your hair deciding if you want to feed the eels you put on your socks I finish my coffee we’re about to leave and go feed the eels I tell you to call her back you answer it anyway even though we’ve made plans go feed the eels you open the door I put my cup in the sink we’re finally leaving to go feed the eels I say they might bite you tell me don’t be mean it’s a dangerous thing going to feed the eels you ask me what’s wrong I saw someone I used to know it’s a scary thing going to feed the eels I roll up my sleeves you bend down to the river focus, you’re here to feed the eels you hand them the meat I think about this morning I’m jealous, I don’t want to feed the eels I press my fingers against the current you put your lips on mine we have a great time feeding the eels you say they’re staring I tell you about one who loved and died for it her name was Sina, they met when she fed the eels I wash the blood from my hands yours are still clean it’s been such a perfect day feeding the eels