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.