Monday, November 25, 2013

Peixe by Christian Aguiar

In her kitchen she severs all ties
between bone and flesh,
silver slivers cut
lengthwise: long, never-ending white flesh.

Across the street it’s a new business
and a new breed:
rich kids, rich enough
anyway to throw a Bible
onto the sidewalk unused..

She saw a child yesterday staring
with bony terror
at the bacalhau,
split aqueous bats hung from the beams

of the dried-up corner market
where it all started
with a stained sign:
“Apartments for rent. Students Welcome”.
One hundred years came crashing down

wings broken, drowning in the cold blood spilt
to turn tenements
into homes, and fish
into family.

In her kitchen she makes one last meal
of seasoned codfish,
potatoes, onion,
garlic, carrots, vinegar, wine,
and a prayer for those who will come next.

Author bio: 

Christian Aguiar was born in Worcester, MA. His poetry And fiction has been published in various journals, including Alimentum, Collective Exile, and Crack the Spine. He is currently a graduate student in English at Georgetown University.

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