In the Fishmongers

All over the fish
and the knife that continues to work
and the marble slab
and her own red hands
the tears flow salt
like a sauce.

How is it the squared body trembles,
the dark head buries its raw nose
and starting eyes
in a rough roller towel?

Has she no escape
from this catch?
Must the knife continue to clean out
guts, bones, brains
until filetted
of emotion and female pride,
flat, cold on the slab
she can cease to weep and tremble?