Fish or like Fish

He startled to see a statue of blind

justice really did loom over the courtroom. But

remained determined to scorn symbolism.

She needed a quarter to call her lover—

the docket was full, she’d be late for lunch—

and he gave her one. It was not a taunt,

acquiescence, wager, or plea. It was

a quarter. The fact that they had done this—

even this!—together and cordially,

late nights at the dining room table with

a bottle of cabernet, sharp pencils,

A Love Supreme, and an “E-Z Workbook”

from the well-reviewed—the fact that they’d read

reviews!—Don’t Pay an Attorney! series,

as if they were learning Portuguese or

origami, was not “as if” or “like”

anything, but just that, a fact, and not

to be pressed for further significance. This

was part of the agreement. They filled out

the forms. Asked lawyer friends for language.

Made stacks of books and towels. Cooked dinner

together, said “excuse me” passing

in the hallway, and even remembered

each other’s mother’s birthdays. As if. Not

as if. Waiting for their case to be called,

they got hungry. The bailiff pointed toward

the snack bar in the basement, which was packed

with a class trip from the school for the blind.

In illo tempore such a gift would have

caused them to turn to each other in love

and wonder. Now, no. They didn’t even

look to see. She asked for fish sticks, and he

wondered if fish sticks were fish or like fish.

The children chewed their chicken fingers

with calm deliberation, staring out at what

they saw, then conveyed their limp paper plates

with startling grace to the hinged swinging mouths

of the trash cans which swallowed everything

offered saying THANK YOU THANK YOU.