The first time I ever tried to gut a fish
was with my bare hands.
I still remember the feeling of the scales under my fingernails.
A knife gone damp
A feather solidified
A soul dismembered raw.
Bodies, transformed in their own respects.
My hands were not water
and this fish was not skin;
it was all simply something
where it was not meant to be.
The fish out of water
The scales embedded in my palm
And me, on the wharf with a knife in my hands
I was afraid of it at first;
Its threat of violence and promise of nourishment
A double-edged blade; sharp and inevitable.
What is a knife if not a sword dried up?
What is a dead fish if not a battle, long lost?
I have now learned how to gut the fish.
I am not afraid
of the knife.
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