Charlie Brice writes

The Fishes

There was muttering:

Joe muttered something to Alex

Alex muttered back.

There were looks:

Joe peered at Alex

Alex peered at Joe.

Eyebrows were raised,

cheekbones twitched.

Even at ten years of age

I knew something secret

was going on and that

I wasn’t in on it.

What’s up? I asked Joe.

Nothing, nothing, he said.

Then silence, more looks,

more muttering.

You’re my best friend, I said,

tell me what’s going on.

Joe raised his eyebrows,

Alex’s cheeks twitched.

Joe jerked his head—

Okay? he asked Alex.

Maybe, Alex said.

There was silence.

Then, in a serious voice

I’d never heard Joe use before:

We have a club, Joe said.

What’s it called? I asked.

It’s a secret, Joe said.

Can I join? I asked.

Joe said he had to consult the membership.

Joe leaned into Alex.

There was muttering,

raised eyebrows,

cheekbones jerked.

Okay, Joe said, you can join.

Great, I said, what’s it called.

The Fishes, Joe said,

but that’s a secret.

You can’t ever tell anyone

the name of our club.

Do you swear never to tell?

Yes, I said.

Then Joe taught me the handshake.

I learned that Joe was the president

of The Fishes and Alex the vice president.

I was their only member.

It felt good to belong.

Greg from down the street

pulled up with his new Schwinn ten speed.

Hi guys, he said.

We muttered to each other,

raised eyebrows,

flexed cheekbones.

What’s going on? asked Greg.

We have a club called The Fishes, I said.

It’s a secret.

Joe looked at Alex,

Alex shook his head.

Joe stood before me

with the most solemn expression

I’d seen outside of when

we buried our dog.

You, Joe intoned, are no longer

a member of The Fishes.

Secret Society - Moose! --  Jean Michel Basquiat

 

 Hand of the Mysteries -- J. Augustus Knapp