Laid out neatly for sale—beneath a scale
turning in the breeze—Spanish mackerel
float nowhere on a bed of Styrofoam
in Chinatown, kept fresh with cubes of ice.
A strange light shimmers in their golden
eyes. These mackerel don’t seem to care
if anybody buys them, fries them, or enjoys them
later with a glass of chardonnay, or if
they’re destined to be carted off with unsold
smelts to fertilize a landfill in Ohio—
miles away from anything familiar—
decent theater, or the sea. Such peace
of mind, I envy. I have never seen
the dead appear so lovely. I might not
see anything more beautiful today.
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