stuff crackers into the back of the wheelchair.
Weeks later sitting on the deck over the pond
the daughter will remember the stolen tidbits
rummage around, produce two packages of
stale saltines and wish they were more.
They had been watching tiny bluegill
swirl about beneath them
in lazy Van Gogh circles.
She likes to bring her mother here.
Outside the tiny world that is all she knows.
Outside in the sunshine
they share stories, real and imaginary
as the wind kisses their brows
and cools their cheeks.
Bluegill remind the daughter of her grandfather
and the women, her father.
She will break the crackers into pieces
hand them to her mother one by one
and watch as delight reanimates her eyes.
So many days now her eyes are dead.
Just to see something spark there
even if it does not catch makes her happy.
All the while, beneath them
The blue green circle of fish tighten, frenzy
like the emotions of the daughter
like the thoughts of the mother
Collapsing like both of their lives.
Collapsing into each other.
Collapsing for want of the other.