on a mess of slime-slick entrails
sat the fish: gutted by the deft arc
of a fishmonger’s enameled blade,
stomach calcified into black rust &
bitter salt. vertebral bones protruding
like needle-sharp thorns. i looked it
right in the eye, & a fovea filled with
murky rage stared back. did you know
the chinese word for fury is 怒— nù.
a woman with her right hand over
a heart. fish hearts out of water die
slowly. there is no room to breathe.
when the knife descends, imagine
being so heavy as to sink into nothing.
perhaps i’m more like the fish, but
today, i am the knife. i beg, let me
dismember all that makes me feel.
