For E.B.

The finest day of the week,
it's circled red on my calendar. They come around
all the time, the same time each week. And even
if you miss one, it circles around
again. It's always Thursday somewhere
even if it has a name like Jeudi or Jeuves,
or even Giovedì it's still circled in dark
red pen. On a Thursday you once told me
you loved me, it was a full moon (it was full
on my calendar) and I looked up and it looked
like a rock in a pond, covered deep in snow
and how faithful it was, following me home
to my door before you said my name Elizabeth
and I would have replied she-roo like a sandpiper
tucked under a pier on a hazy beach
(if I could speak at all).

On Thursdays you would visit
after working at the fish cannery. The following day
is fishermen's holiday when the nets would dry
and the fishermen would mark down
appointments on their calendars. Umbrellas mark
the coast when you come in off the sea, a regalia
of umbrellas like giant mixed drinks on the beach,
and on Thursdays when the fishes' heads come off
they're sorted into a bin-some go to China, some
to the North, and the rest wind up in our soup.
Why do (they must, you say) do the fish swim
into your nets? Are any named Elizabeth? On Wednesday
I wonder if you'll come to me. I write your name
on my calendar just in case. But if you did
there wouldn't be fish soup for us all.