311 Readings | 1 Rating

the fishmonger

 i gut fish 
with a thin knife
i wear my coat sleeves 
down

careless 

this season 
cracks bones

bareknuckled 
tedium 
costs less 
than 
living matters 

my arms are 
scaled mercury 
my woman’s 
fingers are silver
tipped

we eat raw chinook 
clean our hands 
with newspaper
line our coats with 
what is left 

morning finds us 

our dirty legs tangled 
in sandy sheets 
writhing with 
eels. 
Posted 10/09/11
previously published on www.haliterature.com
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