Not the holy mackerel of the exclamation, nor the ones caught and served by the disciples to feed five thousand. Nope. Only ordinary mackerel: two of them for the two of us waiting for the frying pan.
The wine, too, from the liquor store’s middle shelf for our middle class aspirations: a middling white, opened to breathe.
But there’s only one glass set out, for I remembered you’d gone. Thus, I’ve invited the overcast skies inside. Don’t be condescending: I haven’t been crying. That’s only condensation moist on my cheek.
Despite my prayers of intercession, my supplications for your safe return, I don’t say grace. Instead, I cook the fish whole, plate them that way, so their eyes gaze at me while I dine, desperate as I am for company.