A Pile of Fish by Tomás Q. Morín

A Pile of Fish

 

Six in all, to be exact. I know it was a Tuesday

     or Wednesday because the museum closes early

on those days. I almost wrote something

 

     about the light being late—; the “late light”

is what I almost said, and you know how we

     poets go on and on about the light and

 

the wind and the dark, but that day the dark was still

     far away swimming in the Pacific, and we had

45 minutes to find Goya’s “Still Life with Bream”

 

     before the doors closed. I’ve now forgotten

three times the word Golden in the title of that painting

     —and I wish I could ask what you think

 

that means. I see that color most often

     these days when the cold, wet light of morning

soaks my son’s curls and his already light

 

     brown hair takes on the flash of fish fins

in moonlight. I read somewhere

     that Goya never titled this painting,

 

or the other eleven still lifes, so it’s just

     as well because I like the Spanish title better. 

“Doradas” is simple, doesn’t point

 

     out the obvious. Lately, I’ve been saying

dorado so often in the song I sing

     to my son, “O sol, sol, dorado sol

 

no te escondes...” I felt lost

     that day in the museum, but you knew

where we were going having been there

 

     so many times. The canvas was so small

at 17 x 24 inches. I stood before it

     lost in its beach of green sand and

 

that silver surf cut with pink.

     I stared while you circled the room

like a curious cat. I took a step back,

 

     and then with your hands in your pockets

you said, No matter where we stand,

     there’s always one fish staring at us.

 

As a new father, I am now that pyramid

     of fish; my body is all eyes and eyes.

Some of them watch for you in the west

 

where the lion sun yawns and shakes off

     its sleep before it purrs, and hungry,

dives deep in the deep of the deep.