October 29, 2015Cleaning
I almost laughed when I corrected
without thinking
the man on TV describing the proper
way to slice open the body
of a fish. Not, as he said,
starting at the throat slicing down;
it’s much easier, I said
to go the other way and it was you
tiptoeing your eyes towards me
that almost made me laugh
like the maniac you imagined me to be
so I shut up. It’s not your fault
you could never understand how easy
it is to learn the numb sodality with death
how even at that moment
my hand muscles were recalling the precise
grip around the tail, knife point
in the vent—soft opening
for all the unpleasant fluids—
and one smooth slash up
through intestine, stomach, esophagus
blade like an apathetic decision
between asymmetrical liver lobes,
snug into the crook of operculum—
name perfectly round and protective—
around that plate of bone splaying
the brilliant fringe of gills.
The heart a tiny gem tumbling out.
One slice, anus to mouth,
through shit and acid and blood
one smooth motion from whole
to empty.
It’s much easier this way,
to draw that line between
living and hollow
starting at the most
vulnerable point, avoiding
teeth and bone, the death
a clean surprise
ending on a still tongue.
My hands remember each one
became skilled at carving
at recognizing so well the ease
from one side of that delicate
edge to the other.
from #49 - Fall 2015