Sashimi

I was drunk on sake when that gorgeously marbled hunk of otoro 

slipped from my chopsticks into tamari leaving Rorschach on my tee.

“Diablo Rojo!” I bellowed, pulling my shirt flat, my friend, Victoria, 

third Sapporo, slapping the table, “You’re a sea witch, bitch!”

The stone-jawed itamae glanced at us from behind a cooler 

of colorful flesh, gluten-free white ladies 

interpreting tamari blot, then nodded to a waitress 

who brought two forks, water, and an unctuous smile. 

Back home, hot with sake, I called you.

You don’t eat sashimi, you reminded me, 

you prefer flash-fried oysters, Kewpie mayo, 

rolls with cream cheese and cuke. 

Tuna belly makes you gag, you claim, 

and daikon is gross - both bitter and sweet -

a metal spoon clanking against your favorite glass

- vintage Burger King, Skywalker and your first love, Leia -

a ritual of spinning chocolate syrup into whole milk,

your favorite nightcap, your boyishness beseeching

the pale pink suckers that line my groin.

Come see me, I beg.

Sweet dreams, baby.

Not tonight.

*

Fish flesh is unlike other flesh. 

It’s tender, easily stressed. 

The kill matters.

First, a spike through the brain, 

followed by a thin wire 

through the spine. 

If you do it right,

there’s a shimmy, 

rigor-mortis slows,

and later, otoro,

soft belly streaked with fat, 

melts sweetly on the tongue.

Alone in bed, capsized by sleep,

I dreamt I was an underwater pop star, 

a Humboldt squid

unfurling into song, 

my purpled pains

and fleshy joys 

undulating

through shafts of sun, 

when lone bluefin

breaks from the shoal,

pupils edged silver

with devotion.

My tentacles are barbed,

baby, my suckers have teeth,

keratin beak a cold spike 

through the brain,

Come home to me,

I’ll do you right, 

squeeze you tight

until you shimmy 

into ravening dark.