The head of the fish thuds
into the kitchen sink
with a splash of lettuced water
and she says not this. Don’t
marry the head or anyone
too cunning. She saws the knife
through the tail, the muscle
springs and says not a man
who doesn’t have a brain. There’s
no meat here. As I walk through
fish markets next to the goats
skinned with their heads on a table,
the finned belly glistens
with the dusty sun, jutting
proudly blue and silver.
I reach out to prod the slick
elastic skin, pierce him with two
fingers, and eat around the bones.
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