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patterns on water
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Poetry | March/April 2022

Little Fishes

By Liz Verlander

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.

3 replies on “Little Fishes”

ann whitesays:
March 22, 2022 at 12:38 pm

Lovely poem Liz

Reply
Jennifer Dumbeltonsays:
April 1, 2022 at 3:31 am

This is so moving. I’ve found myself returning to it, trying to unpack and absorb it.

Reply
Rosa Walkersays:
May 17, 2022 at 9:32 am

Beautiful and heart wrenching. I read and re-read

Reply

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