For times like these – and
what times aren’t? – I keep a
fish pond in my basement.
When hunger raises its
triangular head, I descend to
the dark waters, bullwhip in
hand. Drawn out of nature,
the fish in their generation no
longer take a bodily form
from any natural thing. Their
eyes are beakless, bulging,
and blind, but trembling the
great cathedral gong of my
approach, they begin their
night-walkers’ song. To the
crack of skin on skin, cured
leather on scales, they
supplicate tenderly while I
revel in blood and thunder.
The separation of fish-wife
from husband, parent from
child, inamorata from inamorato
sweetens the meat,
and thus I eat.

Posted for dVerse ~ Poets Pub’s “Final Couplet” Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft on
Thursday, 26 Mar, 2020 by Frank Hubeny