Tiny Fish

My mother wouldn’t want me to listen to the old lady
on the other end of the phone, screaming and threatening
to call a lawyer because I won’t give her money
to buy Tylenol, which she hides in her underwear drawers
and eats like candy. My mother would tell me to ignore
her texts. Just put your phone away into a drawer, she’d say.
She’d tell me to sit at this desk and listen to the cars
sliding by the window as though suspended in air.
Remember when you were like a tiny fish swimming inside
my body? she would say. Think about that. My mother
would warn me not to listen to sounds that might
harm me. She’d understand I have one of those bodies
that feels everything. She’d tell me to walk to the window
and look at the trees, siren red and blazing.