My hand became my father's hand that day，

    for a second or two，

    as I lifted the fish，

    and I could feel his loneliness，

    my father's， like mine，

    a horse in a stall spooked by guttering candles，

    the popping and black smoke，

    the quivering flanks.

    And if a horse， in its loneliness，

    couldn't manage to speak，

    what difference did it make？

    What could he say？

    Tell a flickering candle Burn true？

    Then I thought of my mother，

    standing in a field with flames in her hair.

    She was surrounded by deer，

    statues in a circle around her.