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Scales hardened over her skin
a condition called ichthyosis vulgaris

ik-thee-O-sis vul-Ga-ris

fish disease

(the ‘vulgar’ means ordinary
but at its worst
it is far from common).

She bled where the plaques chipped and cracked,
she leaked oils, but could not sweat enough.

She existed on her own sunbaked beach
gasping for breath.

She was a salmon fisher once
before she was encased in Piscean plates.

(The root of the word salmon
is ‘salvo’ meaning, to ‘leap’),
and indeed
for years she had tried to jump out of her skin.

One night
an easterly wind
brought a silver-eyed fisherman
to her breach.

In the swaying dark
he laid her down.
She suffered him to scrape
the arid scabs from her
with his skinning blade, hooked like a gaff.
He was exquisitely skilled,
gentle even.

Slowly he skived her sheath,
left her
glowing and wet,
beautiful and supple
on a heap of husks.
There beside the pitching surf
they made love.

Later,
he watched
as she swam away.

(The ichthys fish symbol
is older than history,
sea goddesses
claim it
as a symbol
of sexuality and rebirth).

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