He wants me to know him by the size of his fish, his fodder, scales, the shimmer-shimmer. His pants smeared with blood. Skin clammy. Weigh it on the docks. A record? Arms full of fish, long hairy, exuding salt, marsh grass sulfur. His leg is

cocked like Donatello's David. Eyes: heavy lidded. In Italian towns, shutters clatter shut for lunch/siesta. This is no rainbow trout. Place it on the scales of infinite justice. Precision. Count the scales. Yes, we have a record. Bring it on home; bring me bacon, the love, bring it to me: the blood, the bacon, everything. Everything, he whispers, is under control. Baby, wear that red sequin halter with the tight jeans, the one in the picture. You do look like that, don't you? He washes away the blood, ices the monster of the deep.

 

 

 

 

Christy Sheffield Sanford. .  My Matchcom favorites. .