Through the Ears of a Fish
My grandmother refuses to look
in the mirror. She says a weird fish
swims up to the glass to mock her
through mime. She says it’s impolite,
says she doesn’t recognize the rude
trout as anyone connected to her life.
We both laugh, though I make certain
my grandmother is laughing before
I join in—my grandmother’s laughing
is close to crying, not even tears
mark the difference; cry-laughing,
cry-crying. My grandmother says
she’s lost her footing—says whenever
she plumbs her history she finds
only a layer of air. She taps the side
of her head and from one ear,
her otoliths pop out—three tiny hearing
stones—lapillus, sagitta, asteriscus.
We count the calcium rings
and conclude my grandmother is
a gamey old perch. My grandmother
says, as well as being part fish
and part raven, I’m also part yew
from the woodland ridge of Sliabh
na mBan (the mountain of the women).
She opens my hands to read runes
on my palms, takes one of my feet
to count rings on my sole, she turns
her listening ear to my mouth,
and I call to the tides tugging the sea.
2020-07-11 11:37:31
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