We entered the fish market.
On the ice sits a scale-less monster from the deep sea of primordial species. I want that fish.
“It doesn’t look fresh,” says my aunt.
We venture further inside, when the thrashing catches my eye.
The fish I wanted is still alive!
I can’t look away,
the fish hacked in half at the waist
the two feet of flesh Kicking
“We’ll take two inches,” says my aunt.
The market’s executioner grabs the head but can’t handle the bucking. He takes a breath, holds the other side and cleaves another piece of waist.
“Why don’t you kill it instead of letting it suffer?” asks my aunt.
“The customers assume it’s not fresh and won’t buy it.”
Home, we put the fish on a plate.
The flesh is too fierce.
The cells are still kicking.