how can i pull a kind of reckless

reminiscence from the fish market

in town—on sundays i go alone.

the gardenias are unwatered

upon my return, the chamomile

unsteeped, toppling odds one over

another over another, but i can

only wring the salt from my sundress

and fill my mouth with brine. i scribble

on soiled parchment—to my husband—

but he will not be home until the ink

bleeds dry. the fish eyes are seething

blind so i sever sinew from bone,

bone carved of alabaster, simmered

and made into stew for a blind man’s

dinner. he will return riding the coattails

of a beer-battered high with not even

counterfeit love to give. i rock

in an armchair and think of this love,

cut from the lining of a singed oyster

shell, this love, wasted. before the

decades lit themselves atop kerosene

stoves. i encountered a man at the

fish market on a sunday who gave

to me a spiraling romance in the ashes.

now, i tear the soft flesh of an apricot

naked from its pit and suck its nectar from

my gaping wounds—do you crave my

touch as much as i crave yours? stranger—

you should see the acropolis i built

for you in my dreams. we are more

and more than this, you said. you

promised me a home amongst the

seabirds and white coral reefs. you

promised me more than a half-baked

existence, so where are you now? now,

i lay a gallery of scraps on the beaten

cobblestone and wait for the coyotes

to feast at dusk. they say if the fever

does not kill you the loneliness will.

they say it is easier to play pretend. and

it is not until i have taped cellophane

ghosts to the sills and hung the linen

to dry that i recall, the man from the

fish market i married—but look what

has become of us now. strangers now.

look—the tides are ever in flux, shifting.

look—i can no longer water the

roots of my saltwater fantasy.

look—how can i con serendipity?

pray that this life—clean, scale, gut—

is only a prototype for the next.