i cut the head first.
then twist the knife
sideways & skin the fin.
a filet of trout
bent over my fingers
like a ray of light.
the night cast
over me the way
a looming fisherman sharpens
his hook
into gleaming:
into the silver shine
of scales & starlight.
here is a room
where the living
quiet the living into light
—the shadow drops
into water with no return.
which is all
to say: i don’t
know life
without cutting;
the sun cleaves
the world in two,
& we call it horizon—
two hemispheres stitched
together by a fishing
line of light. like fish
we brave the sea
in our stomachs:
we close
to open again.
we wish to return
to water, we wish