Poet Jessica Rapisarda takes us inside the moment and body of a childhood lesson.
—
There’s no mystery
once they’re slabbed
and you’ve slipped into
their chilly, vacant skin,
palming the heart, cupping
the dusk-shaded organs,
their quiet, tractable science.
When I was ten
and on the verge
of knowing something
terrible, embarrassing,
Grandma gutted a fish,
clutched the flailing,
sucking catch,
and slits its underbelly.
Look here. Lemme show you…
Her hand opened to reveal,
the purpled sack of heart
plucked from its hot, live
insides, still beating.
Rolled between her fingers
like a dirty penny,
the gobbet was flung
to the mud and flies.
She went about her business—
getting to the meat.
She cut fin from flesh
body from head,
scooped its oily citrine eye
It lay splayed and pink,
awful, agog.
And in the mud, the
phantom pulse pushing
out dark, dark blood.
You should be amazed.
at the heart’s easy cleaving.
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Photo: Groman123/Flickr