Second sight

The fish are asleep
roosting in the trees, their fry
folded under their wings,
tucked into nests of seaweed
and me, breathing
nothing, as usual, a small tree
blocking my air. I
can see you, you know,
the money you stole
from your mother’s wallet
how you cheat on your wife,
how you ate the last of the sweet
plums. I am the woman
in metallic puce looking
into your window, watching
the fish settle down
among the petunias
in your garden.