He wants me to know him by the size of his fish, his fodder, the scales, the shimmer, the shimmer. His pants. His pants are smeared with blood. The skin is clammy, febrile. Perhaps a record. Weigh it on the docks. Arms full of fish, long hairy, exuding salt, sulfur of marsh grass. His leg is cocked like Donatello's David. Eyes: heavy lidded. Shutters clatter shut for lunch/siesta in Italian towns. This is no rainbow trout. Place it on the scales of infinite justice. Precision. Greenwich Mean Time. Count the scales. Yes, we have a record. Bring it on home; bring me the bacon, the love, bring it to me: the blood, the bacon, everything. Everything, he whispers, is under control. Heat up the court bouillon, Baby, I'm coming home tonight. Wear that red sequin halter with the tight jeans. He washes away the blood, ices the monster of the deep.

 

 

 

 

Christy Sheffield Sanford. .  My Matchcom favorites. .