Silently, we stood waiting our turn
behind a line of boisterous, back-slapping fishermen,
inching our way to the marina’s only cleaning table—
my mother grabbed the hose, sprayed away blood
and fish guts left behind by the last guy,
too drunk to care. She told me to pay attention—
to watch her clean the first of our catch. How
the fish I caught weren’t going to clean themselves.
I recall the handle of her father’s knife,
carved antler from a buck he’d killed—how it fit
so easily into her palm. She slid the blade
along the dorsal fin, sliced free the spiny stabilizer,
flipped the fish over—handed me the knife
for the beheading. Then, with one cleaver whack
she hacked off the tail.
I remember how the table shuddered—
how I dared not. Taking the knife,
she showed me where to incise a single slit
along the belly, how to peel back the flesh,
insert my fingers, pull out heart, liver,
spleen—their smell, pungent as seaweed.
I remember itchy fish scales scattering
along my arms, into my hair, as I scraped
each fish’s pearly skin smooth—the cry
of gulls echoing beneath the station’s tin roof.
Later, we grilled perch fillets over open fire—
sting of lemon juice dripping into tiny cuts
along my fingertips—I panicked
when translucent fish bones caught
at the back of my throat. I didn’t know
whether to cough or swallow. How Mother,
without looking up, handed me a piece of Wonder
Bread—how she kept on eating, how silently
she left cleaned bones on her plate.
