On Wanting to Tell [ ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes

—how her loose curls float

above each silver fish as she leans in

to pluck its eyes—

You died just hours ago.

Not suddenly, no. You'd been dying so long

nothing looked like itself: from your window,

fishermen swirled sequins;

fishnets entangled the moon.

Now the dark rain

looks like dark rain. Only the wine

shimmers with candlelight. I refill the glasses

and we raise a toast to you

as so and so's daughter—elfin, jittery as a sparrow—

slides into another lap

to eat another pair of slippery eyes

with her soft fingers, fingers rosier each time,

for being chewed a little.

If only I could go to you, revive you.

You must be a little alive still.

I'd like to put this girl in your lap.

She's almost feverishly warm and she weighs

hardly anything. I want to show you how

she relishes each eye, to show you

her greed for them.

She is placing one on her tongue,

bright as a polished coin—

What do they taste like? I ask.

Twisting in my lap, she leans back

sleepily. They taste like eyes, she says.