On my 21st birthday Mom invited meTo The Wolverine Lodge for venison steaksAnd Irish whiskey. I was introduced to her croniesAnd business associates, like Muffinchops,Her duck blind buddy and Señor Toupee,Her canasta cohort. To be honest, my motherAnd I weren’t what you would call close.When I was a kid, she was often at workOr down at the Wolverine, leaving Dad and meTo our TV dinners and forensic investigations.So this was a great birthday gift: to see Mom’s world.Who knew that her friends called her The DuchessOf Malfi? In the weedy hours we found ourselvesAt the bar, sipping cognac. “Ho, you’re a good son,”She said, “and someday I hope you can join meHere, and become a solitary carnivore, ‘Gulo! Gulo!’Bartender, two more for the road.” SunlightMade her fake eyelashes look like twin spiders,The good kind, the kind whose poison you milkFor vaccines and blow-darts. “Of course, I’ll have toToughen you up. You always were a dreamer,Believing in Santa and the Easter Bunny way pastThe expiration date.” We laughed. She wasn’t soWrong. “Yes, but give me some credit. I knowYou swap-out my goldfish.” She grabbed my tumblerAnd downed my drink. “C’mon Mom! Do youReally think that I believe that Mr. FinsIs 20 years old? Jeesh! You must buy a new fantailEvery few months.” She took my hand. Her leatherMittens were damp. ”Son, we should have told youYears ago. I guess we’re ashamed. Or maybe,We’re ashamed for feeling ashamed? You see, FinsIsn’t a goldfish; he’s your brother.” I laughed.“Is this part of some initiation ritual?” I lookedAround for cameras. She removed a mitten.Her bare skin touched my face for the first timeIn years. She was serious as an airbornePathogen. “My brother is a goldfish?”“No, of course not. No, your brother just looksLike a goldfish.” “Ma, how is that possible?”“There are more thingamajigs in tequilasAnd peyote, Horatio, than are dreamt ofIn your pharmacopoeias.” We filled the gaucheSilence by watching a replay of CandlepinsFor Cash. I know what you’re thinking: Yes,The twelve pins and small ball are wyrdAnd symptomatic of a mislaid America, butDid the news of your brother leave you more flabberOr more gasted? Neither. Nor was I foundedOr dumb. Actually, the info cleared up severalMysteries, like the seahorse and Lexus keysThat appeared in Fins’ tank when he turned 16.Now I knew why Dad insisted on usingA water and Fins-filled acrylic baseball every timeWe played catch. And I appreciated thatThe reason my parents sent Fins to France for spring break(The same break I worked at the glue factory)Had nothing to do with creative tax loopholes.I kissed Mom’s hand and excused myself.I pretended to walk to the men’s room, but insteadI used the payphone to call my sister, the feralCat. “Remember that deal we had? The oneWhere you leave Mr. Fins alone? Nevermind.”Peter Jay Shippy’s most recent book is the verse novella, How to Build the Ghost in Your Attic (Rose Metal Press, 2007). His work has recently appeared in The American Poetry Review, Harvard Review, and Shenandoah. Shippy teaches at Emerson College.