A-minor

by Rachel Becker

Where the sea is the great green eye
of someone else’s photograph.
Where the fish phosphoresces.

Where the rocks are a menace
and the sea stars sting any open palm.

Where other fish nibble
pieces of pineapple my son holds
tight in a pincer grip, and

where he obviously has gills
and I—despite a hereditary glitch—
do not

(my father’s slits line the divot
of his temple)

Where I imagine the boy pummeled
between the rocks and the rocks

a bish-bash where the fish go to die
or dive.

Where I am the striped mother,
where the father goes missing,
and my son’s fins fade from view.

Rachel Becker’s poems most recently appear or are forthcoming in Barely South Review, Portland Review, The Shore, Maudlin House, and RHINO as well as elsewhere. She lives in Boston.