Fish in Winter

My brother is surrounded by
the artifice of a town and its inhabitants.
After school he slinks back into
the blue shade of the pines.
Every year it seems
He slips and falls on the ice:
Bruised knee caps, cold scrapes on his palms,
The wind knocked clean out of him.
He slips but is slow to help himself
back up. He finally stands —
a tall willow bending towards
a frozen pond.
He thinks of the bottom of the lake,
And how it’s dark, and whether or not
there are lots of cold fish down there,
Languid silver or white.
These fish have no breath, only lidless eyes
that look side to side. They don’t mind
the icy layer between their realm
and the sun.
He skates over them every year.
And every year he wonders
If they’re real, or just figments
of metallic fish
swimming behind his eyes, as they move
side to side, as he skates over the ice.