by Erin Malone

The fish sloshing in the tsunami
of its bowl as we walked it room to room, blue gravel
whirling—sometimes I felt like that, loose

inside the water of my body. The fish
hides by the plastic button reef, maybe

the only shape it’s sure of. I kept
falling out of bed, swerved bandy-legged

to the bathroom sink and back, sink
and back, until my mind shrank down to sleep.

When I descended mornings
everything had been done for me—eggs on toast, toast
on plates—

The baby’s nose too large for his face.
I held him like a present, a guest,
while a woman with pins in her mouth

hemmed my dress to the floor
and it was all I could do
not to fall.