Fish Shop

The head is always the first to go
Eyes lingering on mine, veiled and dead
Captured staring into its last glimpse of this world
Full of sight and blind at the same time.

I don't look at the eyes, only the neck
As the razor edge of the knife comes down
Thud, sickening and dull into the wooden countertop.

Then the slippery body, my fingers covered in it's slime
Holding it there and slitting down the streamlined stomach
The innards become the outards
And so do mine.

The smell is natural, pulses of stagnant heat wafting up
In time of a heartbeat that does not exist
My hands, acting only on memory
Hold the gossamer fins and slice, cast them into the trash.

And as I repeat the sacred act there's a small tickling in my
Stomach that climbs into my throat,
Threatening to burst free.

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