Killing the Fish

I don’t suppose he thought
about it much— the silver fish 

we caught dumped in the plastic pail,
their slip and curl and gasp

when he poured them in the sink.
But I looked on at his steadiness,

how he took pliers to the skin
after he cut a thin circle round the head

and yanked it off like you undress a doll
with clothes too tight.

Likewise, he gutted them, 
a few quick strokes with his fish knife

that held the mirrored scales
in tiny patches on its shaft

until he washed them off.
The guts hauled to the garbage pile

or buried underneath the beans.
Later, tossed in flour and laid out 

in a buttered pan for lunch,
the fish were mild in their death

and only spoke of pond and mud
and all that time held in their cold

green world. I ate them 
like a tiny prayer, or maybe less

as if I knew such violence
was part of every day, what 

I was given in my life.

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