Dead Fish
Dead fish on the dead fish counter;
surprised bulging aqueous eyes stare,
none of them belly-up
but spread on their sides in a pageant
of slippery colors.
Silver, red, rainbow streaked
and all the muddy tones
of river and sea are laid out
on the broken ice for all to judge.
Armored scales flash as if still warding off
other sharp-finned hunters.
These dead fish look uncomfortable,
packed so close as they are
to their sharp-toothed salty cousins.
Fat scallops glisten under the lights,
lobster and crabs hogtied and still glaring
angrily out at this dead fish world.
The skinny kid probably doesn’t know exactly
what a fishmonger does - so few ‘monger’ now.
Of course this is the Midwest, not Seattle or Maine,
we are far from any deep blue waters
and this is a large grocery store;
they don’t hire fishmongers here anymore,
just this kid, and he don’t even like seafood.
When I ask for a Monkfish
pointing out the ugliest dead fish on offer
he handles it as if it were radio-active.
His cringing fingers slip over its wide gargoyle mouth
and for a moment he looks like
he is about to throw-up.
The ugly dead fish is on my kitchen-top now.
I want to cut that hideous head off
but know better,
the best meat is in its fishy cheeks
and the rest is good also, 'a poor man’s lobster.'
besides it will always be a drop dead truth,
that beauty is in the eye of all dead fish shoppers.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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