Tuesday
We haven’t moved from this pier in a couple years.
All we need to do to be happy is point out fish.
Sure, we’re just pointing at ripples,
but we know they’re fish
because a long time ago we ate an oyster,
and every time a fish sees another,
you and me get fed again. Elizabeth,
when you put your hands to the scales
the senses lose weight and
a new full that doesn’t hurt me
can last in my stomach. The bulk of the meat
you thin into a braid of arrows,
and the gills, the difficult scissors taken inside
to breathe, they’re just wide arrows.
A kind that points—
like a hand tremoring
because there’s a past being pointed to
that already understood the present.