“The name Remy is primarily a gender-neutral name of French origin that means
Oarsman.” –babynames.com
When I wake up the sun is out.
Trump has elected himself. One sea
has proliferated sweetly, as love does,
into many, reaching through ice and breathing
hot breath. Mom is jotting in a crossword,
her feet propped on the island counter. For one month
I’ve swallowed a break, ferried it
palate-to-gut like my name, Remy: she
who rows with oars, in night’s ink and black
clothes. This tender fish, reckless minnow hole
-eyed in the palm. A funeral home floating
gets throated under so I can talk at the club
when Mom introduces me to white people who love golf.
I say, “Well, it’s all I can do to keep her off the green!”
They clink and wink. Unseen, a woman in her hull
hovers over remains, the combing rudder.
Dead minnow in a box on a boat inside. Shadows
like a fine silk kerchief—I’ve never noticed them before
stretch their seaweed arms from behind doors
to kill me, I think, or to chase death out.
Waters mutter, proud Americans make
the papers, Mom tosses chanterelles
into a slick hiss while some other abyss
slithers up and over the exterior
whispers hymns in tenors to the flesh of a dead
fish—the story of the kiss that broke water’s bones
set its vessel ever adrift.
Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash
