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.