MEANWHILE, DOWN AT THE FISH MARKET
Three naked men wrestle a fish
spine and ribs annunciate
like floor clacking nails on a splay-hip dog,
not meant to draw attention.
Below the now empty net
their captive flops in a tub
dull-brained, but not dull enough
to have stayed behind.
Filleted, its salty crucifix remains
a token of resistance boxing the light,
cold bones clinging each to each
the way an old couple sleeps
waiting for heat.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005