My mom still
talks about
turning on the lights
in the laundry room
an evening 35 years ago
after my brothers and I
filled the basement
laundry tubs
with water and three carp.
She explains how
switching on the light startles
the fish—
and I can see their shadows darting
across shower curtains,
splashes shattering the quiet.
These carp we carried
two-handed from the Mississippi
leap up in the sudden
florescent air—
and I see my mom gasp
jolted by sloshings
from alien species—
accelerating her
heart as her
right hand
reaches just below
her throat.
This is how poetry works.
David Robinson
May 2010
