She’s a puppy, gets confused by objects
that stare but do not move. The wooden fish
painted yellow, blue, green, with a pink fish
painted in the middle leaning against
the orange dining room wall, for example,
we bought it long ago, one summer roadside,
Mexican border, a man with his own dog
made them, sold them to tourists heading home.
We’ve always loved the fish, the way it’s carved,
the way it continues to balance on the hardwood floor. Gwen pushes it with her
nose, licks it like it’s her baby, looks at me
as if to say, why doesn’t it have a tongue
why isn’t this thing kissing me back? She jumps
away each time it doesn’t move. We re-
assure her it’s okay, this wooden fish
that fills us with memories.