Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom

Fish Wife

With two stout legs and the head

of a carp, she's a doting fisherman's

wet dream, a genie in her kitchen

steam, although she needs a stool

to reach the sink.  He came home

one day to find her squatting there,

stockings rolled, cleaning king prawns

and peeling crustaceans.  She owns no

mirror.  And oh, there is a darkness

in that room, from which no matter

can escape.  But ethereal nymph

melodies pass through her gills,

straight up and out the chimney. 

And the supper smells are close

to heavenly.  By five o'clock, all

the neighbors know, it's surf and turf

again for dinner.  She owns these

homely gifts; and in her lair,

she is the only siren.  The fisherman's

daughter, who lingers in the doorway,

entertaining Mother with some news

from school, begins to undulate

beneath her flowing skirt, unconsciously,

in time to that same beat (a habit,

as her equilibrium is poor.)  She cannot

sing, but she can flip her golden hair

and smile, though she will not, as

yet, for gentlemen who come to supper. 

Such a lovely thing, they always

say.  Who could afford the operation?

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