He
wants me to know him by the size of his fish, his fodder, the scales, the shimmer,
the shimmer. The skin is cool, febrile. Perhaps a record. Weigh it on the docks.
Scales of infinite justice. And precision. This is no rainbow trout. 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. Warm up the court bouillon, Baby, I'll be home tonight. Bloody,
unbowed, wreathed in sargasso.
Christy Sheffield Sanford