Little Fishes

I still see him sometimes,
sitting on the kitchen doorstep flicking
mud from the teeth of his football boots.
And you mashing fish with ketchup so that
he won't make the connection
between supper and Jacob, his golden pet.
 
I am in your kitchen now.
The cheerful yellow curtains buff against open windows.
You have crayon pictures of Jacob swimming
eternally in circles upon the fridge door.
 
In the next room
I know you are curled up in that huge armchair
disconnected,
and I, inadequate,
am searching wildly for crumbs
of comfort—
a misty hope or dusty light—
but there is nothing.
 
I stand, stupid, in the doorway.
Offer you coffee instead,
watch you thrash helpless
through that sea of dark water
where little fishes drown.