Poem from 2015: I Want To Tell You

I Want To Tell You

I want to tell you seven, or maybe three.  Three is an odd number,

odd in the sense that there’s something left over, a little 

uncomfortable, something we don’t quite

know what to do with. 

Seven is like that, too. 

I want to tell you fish, fish is like three and seven—what 

do you do with it

exactly?  Whatever you do there’s some left 

over.  The smell of the wrapping

in the trash.  Even 

the smell of the pan weeks later. I want to 

tell you I made fish cakes from scratch

a month ago.  Now whenever someone fries something 

in the pan I used

the whole house smells like 

fish.  Are there particles of fish 

stuck to the pan, pieces so small I can’t see 

them? 

I want to tell you I washed that pan many times

but still

it stinks

from something left over.