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Washing my daughter's jeans today,
I think about the family whose
daughter disappeared last fall.
They guess she is dead, but hope
she has amnesia somewhere
in another city. Maybe
the girl forgot herself, became
a waitress, a bus driver, a fisherman.
Some say God is a fisherman,
and we are his catch, a school
of worship clotted in his throat.
Maybe believing this is more
comforting than being pulled
inside out, taken into that green
and luminous cave, raw core
of Pisces pinned to a plank.
Maybe the girl isn't really lost.
Maybe she went along willingly,
thinking she might be saved.

Previously published in the Southern Poetry Review, Steam Ticket and the chapbook: Flight Patterns, winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest, 2003.

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