Sara Shirrell: While We Fish

My grandmother comes from the ocean.
Waded out in boots and a baseball cap
and fell flat on the sand to catch her breath.
She's salty- skin a coat,
wrinkled when wet.

She guts fish, a sharp knife squeaks
along the ridged backbone
to halve the carcass,
spread it's limp sections,
remove the stomach,
laugh with squinted turquoise eyes-
See what she ate for her last meal...

My grandmother's nails are tiny white circles
polishing off her brown freckled hands.
She rolls the filets in oil,
flops them back and forth
on a bed of crushed cornflakes.
She talks as she moves,
her childhood, her sister taunting her,
riding on the train in New York
and how she won't swim
unless the ocean is eighty degrees.

The air is thick and moist
and the furniture warm
from the days heat.
Green and black bugs make humming
noises outside on the sand,
the water slamming the shore
like a brother and sister wrestling.

She serves the fish
with spinach salad and tart dressing,
and sits with a straight back,
holds her knife like a pen
European style, it never gets set down.

In the morning the coffee will be burnt.
She'll be at the table by the window-
Look, there's a porpoise family in the water out front...
We'll drink and read the newspaper-
page after page of where the earth is going
while we fish.