By Tom Wiltzius

Your brother was crying, his cat euthanized
and his father paralyzed by the river inside of him––
in the water that seeped into the basement
that March we saw the temper of the plains,
we watched it like pioneers––
the fish your mother would make,
entire, head and everything, like it was
before America, before we ate meat on Fridays––
I was eating lemon slices from a bowl
taking one bite then tossing the rest away
imagining this must be the height of opulence––
sitting across from me, you touched
my foot with yours at dinner,
between us on the table we had
the flesh of Christ, but when our eyes met
we knew it wouldn’t be enough for long
and your father, unnoticing, talked about the weather––
Our father, patron saint of pet cemeteries
and afternoon sun, thank you at least for this––
I was envious, you wanted to be a writer
and in your eyes you already had
the blindness of poets:
too long spent looking at the light.