Feeding Frank

More about Feeding Frank

I caught some trout in an industrial stream. They tasted like rust and motor oil, so I made them into fish emulsion in a mason jar on the stove. The smell was the color of goodbye. I fed them to Frank.

Frank is my soulmate potato plant. He lives in a coffee can by the lamp. Frank doesn’t leave. Frank doesn’t walk through me. He just grows small white roots and drinks what the trout became.

Last night Frank grew a new leaf. I touched it. That was more love than you ever gave me.