My father gives me a knife to gut butterfish
then goes inside to chat and heat the pot.
I run the knife over skin, each scale a shiny flake, a kiss,
the body like some moonlight we have caught.
I pierce its belly, draw blade toward tail, opening a hearth,
hot and moist. I slip in a thumb and index finger,
feel intestine, stomach, and heart, slick like afterbirth.
I pull them out. Crimson flowers, ruined, meager.
I imagine placing them in my mouth, smearing them on my
cheek.
Smell of cut ginger and leek draws me into the kitchen. I give
Mother
the cleaned fish, then the innards. She doesn't speak.
Years later, when I have broken the heart of a lover,
I will realize what was so frightening--this savagery,
the need to tear and smear, is so easily learned, and necessary.
