Ode to a Monkfish in an Andalucian Market (after Pablo Neruda)
I
Women breaking under
kilos of tomatoes stop,
shake their heads
Que gordo! they gasp
at your fat cheeks
at the shine of your fine tail!
Vendors boast your size
their catcalls through the alleys
Que grande! Que masivo!
You on your bed
of chipped ice
your olive eyes lost
in the murkiness of your face
the cavern of your mouth
guarded by tusk-like teeth
Maria’s lover wipes a
knife against his apron,
scatters chunks of
lemon and tomato,
lets stems of parsley rain
around you like a wreath
Behind you crates of
prawn and mussel
pile high
from your mouth’s reach;
their black-beaked
blush-backed shells
rattle like a tin-can-chorus
as they are whooped
in handfuls for a quick sale
You rest easy
figurehead to shoals
of pink and blue-hued scales -
II
Yesterday
you skirted the ocean floor -
junk skin like an unwashed table
Your seawalk unearthing
archaeology lost to
mud and sand
The ambush of your slurp
as you gorged on mollusk
crab claw and lobster,
your mouth sucking them in
behind rows of teeth
The turbine of your jagged barb
twisting
cracking
shell and bone
Up above
where shapeless light exists,
a trawler carves forward
its skipper (oil-skin arms
legs soaked with backwash)
wipes his salt-weather cheek,
counts the nights
fed to wind and rain,
rubs the clefts in his hands,
watches the wake of
nets that trawl the seabed
A sudden jolt and you
swooped upwards to the light!
Small fish slap
against your sides,
gulls snap
at the flax
as you launch from oceanfloor
The skipper smiles as
your fins flap like swallow wings,
your body balloons
with a shock of air
Mud and seaweed drench
from your skin
You pulse in the skipper’s hands,
his hold fast,
your full size
the prize for a week’s work -
III
In the market,
men sip Manzanilla
on high stools
at the corner bar
Their faces crease as tongues
search for husks of
roasted almonds caught
between blackened teeth
The low roll of their voices scorched
with salt air and tobacco,
leathered hands tell
of harder living -
Above their heads
a ceiling fan twirls
The barman raises
heavy eyes
and hopes there’s
one more summer left in it
Mi suegra!
one man shouts and nods
in your direction -
Market vendors,
Manzanilla men, the
barman wiping
down his counter,
tomato-laden women,
and Maria’s lover
laugh and shake their heads
while you return their stare
Your open smile
trying to catch the joke.
Their laughter ripples
through the markethall
and if you were still happening
you might feel its insult
no trace of midnight
blue or silver-shimmer skin
But you lie there
gaping mouth
as though you
had something left to say -
The barman pulls
his shutter down
and the Manzanilla men
shuffle home with
tomato-lugging women
(the clic clac of their tacones echo through narrow streets)
Maria’s lover slides his blade
beneath your speckled skin
to scalp you
Quick!
Unzip your meaty flesh
of bridal white,
your greatness filleted
tail cheeks and all
to be enjoyed by
those who can
afford your sweetness
over chilled glasses of Rioja
while others inherit your
bones to boil for broth
and look you in the eye as
they return you to water -
