I’m thinking of reading Ezra Pound’s Alba out loud to remind my self Standing in a protest marchĮven though politics and the thread of violence frightens me to death. Investigating genocide and climate change. She’s gone to heaven forgotten the climate of the northern areas Mummy’s sister has been gone for a long time Symmetries, trees, birch, driftwood, waves, the birch I can feel the sweat dripping down my backĮven amoebas are pretty under the microscope too and mitochondria, Like bone-thin reed-thin women walking-talking-skeletonsĭancing closet anorexics bungling at feeding themselvesĮyes like slits gold bangles around their wrists
#Ballad of jane fish skin#
Her skin is dark like bittersweet chocolate, lips like pillows Like Buddha and I know for a fact she has secrets like any other The fat woman who stands behind the counter has hands Unlike genocide and climate change in this cool food hierarchy My mother is having hake white fish fried fish. I’m having the calamari because it tastes of the sea. Hunger reminds you that you are nothing without a full stomach That first and foremost they are notorious hunters and gatherers I need to eat.Įven writers and poets need to eat to remind themselves It doesn’t matter to think that one day this fish might be extinctĮven my blood has begun to boil in this heat. With the lunch crowd, students from the university, business people Here in this little out of the way place but it is still popular The air feels hot inside even I have started to sweat. So the customer doesn’t find a stray hair
Wearing their neat black net caps like turbans
Standing anticipatory like a cadet over hot oil I can see kitchen hands wearing aprons like costume Like a cherub in a white christening gown Usually hake wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper Salty, lemony white fish fried fish – (in a baptism of sorts) Image: Perhaps the History of Fish and Chips Started in London
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