My mother once loved a fish.
He was elegant and ten times
the length of a river.

My mother had a name
like none. The name was
gold and acid and. When
murmured, those tingles.
That is why she stayed
so long and underwater—
the liquid slow,
the fish-washed gentle—
no one prayed for gold
at that scale. 

Hives of clam who sucked

her into cold meridians. Open
closing over. House of loose
hair where she slid her name
through weaves of silver.

Fish or waves? The beating bay.
Those arms of fin or man
gathering the gulls.