Through the Ears of a Fish

My grandmother refuses to look

in the mirror. She says a weird fish

swims up to the glass to mock her

through mime. She says it’s impolite,

says she doesn’t recognize the rude

trout as anyone connected to her life.

We both laugh, though I make certain

my grandmother is laughing before

I join in—my grandmother’s laughing

is close to crying, not even tears

mark the difference; cry-laughing,

cry-crying. My grandmother says

she’s lost her footing—says whenever

she plumbs her history she finds

only a layer of air. She taps the side

of her head and from one ear,

her otoliths pop out—three tiny hearing

stones—lapillus, sagitta, asteriscus.

We count the calcium rings

and conclude my grandmother is

a gamey old perch. My grandmother

says, as well as being part fish

and part raven, I’m also part yew

from the woodland ridge of Sliabh

na mBan (the mountain of the women).

She opens my hands to read runes

on my palms, takes one of my feet

to count rings on my sole, she turns

her listening ear to my mouth,

and I call to the tides tugging the sea.