September 29, 2021

Mackerel and Bottle

     —William Scott

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.

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