Fishmouth

Originally published with Poetry Festival

aunty left the fish on the raw wood table

untouched and unprepared, which is

a bad sign because it means she has declared war.

this, of course, occurs on Friday, after Maghreb,

although it is important to claim that she was not

waging any religious war, only a gendered one.

aunty was a man’s man with big broad shoulders

and a no-nonsense frown. she had

dim eyes, the kind that you know once carried some

kind of emotion. she got married young, was widowed

and then remarried still young. by twenty-three,

aunty learned how to press the kill switch on disrespect

and everyone feared her for it, including uncle.

once, a lifetime ago, uncle used to be just as scary.

that’s what the grandmothers whisper when aunty takes a quick

break in the kitchen and uncle is outside smoking the last of his

cigarettes in the refuge of twilight. “aunty broke him down

before he could speak too much,” they whispered, wide-eyed if not

bitter. there is a rumour that uncle was a heartbreaker, although i don’t know

if I can believe it, but aunty swept him off his feet.

then he fell straight, and they were in love.

“and, of course, there was no other choice but to marry, anyways.”

i’ve never seen it, but i guess if there is such thing as love between them

it is in the dimming light in uncle’s eyes when aunty snaps a command, and

if there is love, it is in the spark of fury simmering between both bodies

like boiling fishsoup water in the pot above the fire. or, at the

dinner table, exposed and untouched, the love sits

on a white porcelain tray, smelling distinctly of death and other things.

“where’s dinner?” uncle demands, outraged, and aunty

hands him a fork and knife. “where’s my apology?”

she retaliates. the fish watches open-eyed and limp.

the battle is swift.

aunty reaches for a bowl of murky lakewater

to soften the uncooked blow, while uncle leaps forward with

a quick, quiet lunge.

as aunty dies, her lips flap

open and closed open and closed.

i have never seen death so up-close and personal. hot breath

exhaled in puffs against my face, i never thought death

would be so gross. aunty was a strong woman before she

keeled at the altar of the mighty man cloaked in shadow.

if she were smarter, she would have seen it coming,

the swipe of metal against her neck. the years of distrust

somehow got to her; i think she was just testing him to

see how much reign he’d give her; i think she was just

beginning to love him for real.

i wish it was cleaner, her death. uncle didn’t flinch,

didn’t bat an eye as he grabbed the fork, and i didn’t

think to say a word, either.

Digital Painting by @YolkArtDesign