Obit

reading about autopsies,
on Palm Sunday
someone comes in,
with five fresh caught fish

watching him,
over the kitchen counter
filleting with a paring knife,
red blood streaks pink flesh

colour of the tea in my hand,
of young Jacobs hair, of wine at dinner
and later at mass, colour of the neon signs
on the way home, and later, slicing cheddar, later that night
the colour of my blood.

fish on Fridays, feast on Sundays
and five fresh fish.


(notes: no wine at dinner, the book is joan didions year of magical thinking)