when my father hugs me

by Chel Campbell

He admits he was young once and did things young men do—and the betta fish is still in that concrete basement, in that old house, circling his aquarium. At his own reflection, the male puffs and twitches for his ten warm gallons, programmed to fear scarcity. Burden of territory. Of course there must eventually be children. Species perpetuation. Enter fresh, red female. Insert plexiglass wall until gills soften enough to indicate they might not kill each other. Without their invisible barrier, they still try. In the name of nature, the male’s ripped fins encircle the female’s plucked, bleeding body. She turns her belly towards the fluorescent surface. Death mimesis. Fertilization. Violent coupling melts into unexpected tenderness. Father fish builds a bubble nest where water breaks least. Eggs expel from the mother, rehomed, so she can retreat to heal or die. Wayward roe fall into blue gravel, and father fish dashes to each child, mouth-cradles them home. An encoded nurture. After hatching, the ones who survive being eaten eventually need separation. With his hand on mine, my father shows me how to hold a mirror to glass.

Photo of Chel Campbell

BIO: Chel Campbell is a writer and artist from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. She has a micro zine of poetry called Lovebug out with rinky dink press. Recent artwork appears in Wild Roof Journal and Anti-Heroin Chic. Words appear and are forthcoming in matchbook, X-R-A-Y, Pithead Chapel, trampset, and more. They are the EIC of MEMEZINE (@memezinelit). Find them on Instagram @hellochel and say hi :)