A fish called 'Haver'

OK

plenty of problems to deal with

today,

sounding with O

and starting with

K:

my friend,

Kevin Haverty is sixty

today;

we knew him a

half-decade less—

he’s

here, in

this poem, he’s been on my mind. His

woe-be-

gone fish has died

on my my time

and

I don’t

really know how to put that to rhyme:

he asked

on our last day

of work, “won’t you

please

take this

negligent burden from me?

Every

fish else I’ve man-

aged to dump. Just

this

lonely

last sucker and

I can

go free. It’s faith-

fully cleaned this

tank

and will

yours.”  I told him a lie—that I’d toss

the blame

fish out my car

window on my

drive

home. “Me

too—so you see where we stand. I got

luggage

to pack and much

on my mind.

Please.”

So I

did. I bagged the poor catfish and

hurried

on home. I rolled

down the window

and

hurled out

a prayer. King Lear came to mind: “Poor

naked

wretches, wheresoe’er

you are. I have

ta’en

too little

care of this.” Then “this set down this

set down

this” jettisoned

in—a blurring

of

Magi

in Eliot’s play. I took the

doomed fish

and stared at its
frown. ‘This set down

this set

down this.’…

The drive ended home, I dumped the

black load

in the depth of

my tank, too much

ta’en

with poor

fishes like it, I let him swim

free, and

he did. He lived

full in his fate

and

he died

yesterday. The other fish pecked

at his

body at rest.

I didn’t know then

that

he was

n’t with us. Divining his source,

his chaver,

he was—for here’s

where other pro-

blems

begin.

His name (if I gave it) was ‘Haver’

for ‘friend’.

In Gaelic it’s

Nonsense—a bab-

bling

end. But

Haver is how I referred to

the fish:

“How goes, little

chaver, and how

are

you out-

swimming Kevin, who died yester-

year? Your

cancer was cured

—his not—hard to

take

cheer…” but

I’ll never presume. Here’s food for

your day.

You died when I

wanted your world

yet

to stay.

You faithfully hoovered the brack

of my

tank. You friended

poor wretches, the

least

of these

fishes, and how now we honor

your life

and your trade? How

silly it seems,

how

terri-

bly vain. From one dying hand to

kindred

shell game, never

to gamble a-

gain.

Now hush,

little chaver (your semblance to Bach),

take cheer

and no nonsense

and ultimate

calm

that this

set down this is what everyone

gains in

forgettable flits

and cleansing re-

mains

You did

what you needed, for us and for

you. You

lived and then died,

for us to cons-

true...

or not—

to fathom, I'm over my head:

a man-be-

gone fish is (shall

we say?) god-damned

dead.

Not here

to flaunt what we know is the law—my

father

‘God damned’ only

once in recall

and

surely

not over a scarpering fish, nor

a screed

about someone

who crossed a mere

line.

It was,

rather, an inchoate jab at

dispa-

rate deeds. We suck

what we want, we

sieve

what we

need and we live or we die on that

fragile

thneed. Bemoan the

poor precedent

that

buries

this plea: we’re poor naked wretches

who pine

less to be free

and more to be

known

as hav-

er, as friend, as nonsense  can be.

as fish

or foul, as man

(rest in grace) as

me.