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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4477 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Market Day Treezaa (T. E. Ballard) Consider the fishmonger his knife in my silver belly. See the way he cuts through scales, a line, a thin road. How he wipes his hand on brow, stops for a moment, quivers with life. My life. My bone. Here you children with hungry mouths steal my tail for your mother's pot. Men with change in your pocket, heads hung low, this is my white love, my soft meat, places of pink loneliness-- fry them with a bit of oil. Fishmonger, I will swim to you in sleep, the soft blue of your dreams. Dress myself with woolen blankets, rest in the small of knee. Still, you will not own a woman who hides her gills beneath red tongue. These are things which slip down a man's hand like a wet stone. |
