A drunken fisherman once dove into the sea coated in black oil.
While tracing the geography of his wife’s
body on the floor of the ocean,
he left his own parable drawn across the sediment
for the posterity of his children
and the floundering crustaceans
he had spent his youth searching for.
His daughter’s eyes were the same color as her family name:
“How appellatively appropriate” his wife said as she held her in her arms
and gazed at the doughy knots that composed her newborn’s face.
“She has your eyes, Helen”—glacial, ruminative.
And in that simplicity, was all his love contained.
And so came the infoldings of gray dust,
pockmarks—plaques the doctors would call them—
that would anchor, taking harbor between the gyri of her brain,
leaving her with their aphotic consumption.
What remained were the fish
piscine
scaled skin
coated with black oil
Misaligned piano keys
