That which rings and spins, that which is broken
and between, lingers behind the curtain. We were
a family business: My father, top and tails, sawing
my mother in half. In the wings, my brother fed

loose rabbits. This fish, spun from his palm,
was truly fish. Our fingers traced the scales
along its pliant sides. Our mouths made Os
of what used to be called delight, of surprise,

for the theater’s receding dark. He told
us nothing. You would like to know where
we go in the vanishing. At the Phantasy,
in Cleveland, the volunteer thought herself

an adventuress. She in one box, the fish
in another. The fish came back blind,
swam in circles for days, then nothing.
Not dead. Nothing. My father said,

She kept her eyes open and we did not
ask what he meant.