I can feel the swelling of a fish head
cresting the lip of my front pocket. I
stuff my hand inside, trying to push it
back down to the seam. It doesn’t stay
put. The catfish wriggles through my
fingers, its whiskers tickling my palm,
and slaps wetly on the kitchen floor.

I've clicked the Zoom link for my therapy
session a couple of times and am waiting
in the virtual lobby for Cathy to start the
meeting. At our last session I told her about
a time on the yellow train, when I was going
to meet a date. I was waiting for my stop,
hands flat at my sides. Through the fabric I
felt the first minnow, then another. Then the
perch and snapper. They multiplied quickly,
slimy heads butting my hands, squirming,
slipping out. I knelt on the gritty, wet bootprint-
covered floor of the car, scooping them up,
the wet film of fish grease staining my trench
coat sleeves. Everyone was pretending they
couldn’t see me as I pushed fish carcasses
onto the platform. The automated voice asked
me to stand back from the closing doors. 

I just realized I never called the girl to
cancel. My therapist is telling me about
mindfulness. I think she’s forgotten she
talked about it last time. Well, just in case
you need a refresher, can you try breathing in
through your nose? Breathing doesn't help—
the fish are still coming out of my pockets. 

Another time, I was booking a trip for my
grandma’s 90th birthday party. I decided to
book the flight first. I recovered my password
for the airline’s website, typed the string of
upper and lowercase letters and heard a fish
hit the rug. My session timed out as I was
prompted to approve the transaction on my
banking app. I turned on my phone for the
first time since calling the Department of
Fisheries and being passed from agent to
agent until the hold music ended and I
realized they’d hung up. Apparently, my
phone is too old to support the banking
app update. Fish are steadily filling my
hallway, most of them getting crushed to
death under the weight of the meter-long
needlefish that speared a hole through
my back pocket. The fabric flaps uselessly,
loosing a stream of dabs and herring that
flounder around my bare ankles, gasping
for water, insulating my ice cold feet.

I call a friend from work, ask if she
could make the booking for me.
Stephanie doesn't know about the fish
because we work from home. I send
her money and she sends me the plane
tickets. The dates are a little wrong.

My garbage bins are overflowing with
fish. I’ve piled knotted garbage bags in
the closet where I keep my bike. I’m out
of bags. Fish are heaped in the space
between my washer/dryer unit and the
wall. Wrapped in white tissue in the
empty shoe boxes under my bed.

I've never tried to eat one of my pocket
fish before. I choose a dead, medium-
sized one the length of my forearm.
I watch a YouTube video then gut it, fry it
in my cast iron pan and squeeze a lemon
wedge over the tiny, silver scales.

When I plate it, it looks and smells good.
Skin crisp with caramel-coloured edges,
oil dribbling off the white meat. I cut off
a piece and chew. It tastes like ash. Its
body is filled with more bones than seem
possible. I pick thin white fingernails from
between my teeth. One stabs my tongue,
and my mouth fills with the taste of blood.
I pull the bone out and it's stained pink.
A soft blobfish falls from my pocket.

© 2026 Mahaila Smith