My hand became my father's hand that day，
for a second or two，
as I lifted the fish，
and I could feel his loneliness，
my father's， like mine，
a horse in a stall spooked by guttering candles，
the popping and black smoke，
the quivering flanks.
And if a horse， in its loneliness，
couldn't manage to speak，
what difference did it make？
What could he say？
Tell a flickering candle Burn true？
Then I thought of my mother，
standing in a field with flames in her hair.
She was surrounded by deer，
statues in a circle around her.