the sinks down by the dock,
where we nail our memories,
to the nearest tree,
and use metal grippers,
to smoothly pull off the skin?
watch here the flesh of yesterday's love,
there the whiskers of an unwise decision
we'll clean our ideas of all the
grit and dirt and life, and
we will wait for the grease to heat,
before I drop in a match;
then we'll watch the flame explode
and then subside into cooking grease
imagine, while we bait our hooks
and drop hook, sinker and cork
how we'll watch bits of fish,
battered in grist mill corn,
and soaked in thick buttermilk,
sinking our pasts
into the heated pan.
we'll be frying souls, those fish,
formerly living things,
lost in batter,
shimmering in grease bubbles,
let's drop them in,
they'll never breathe again,
just watch them brown and crispen.
we'll drop in "hush puppies" as well,
bits of balled corn meal,
confections of fiction and image,
fried as a treat for impatient
dogs and hungry children...
simple things, which never breathed,
but we'll save the fish for the adults,
to be savored and dwelt upon,
salted and seasoned,
slathered with sauces,
will you come with me to the docks,
for we've memories to slaughter
and fry, and savor, for
that's why we fish.