A Recipe

A Recipe

a recipe

You start with love, then you fry a fish. I know you can’t see how the two go together, but they do. You start with the hairs on the back of a man’s neck. You may not believe this, but the connection depends on those few tiny hairs which lie like filaments in waiting, primed for the electric moment. If the sun shines, you see them, lined up, their shafts illuminated, their tips curved ever so slightly. Touch this spot on a man’s neck and the world shrinks to one fingertip on one hair, a microcosmic charge. This is how it begins. Devotion, its pale cousin, comes later.

Take two fresh fish. Batter. Drop in a fry pan of sizzling oil. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear the souls whistling their way back to their watery source. Once cooked, salt plentifully and slide onto a large oval platter, with their hot eyes glistening.

Later, you find yourself frying fish and crying at the bones, pulling out the translucent slivers. You fry the fish because he offered it across a frozen river that now separates you. Somehow, he hooked it from under the ice. He is resourceful. He sits at the table, waiting to be served. When the fish, fried and crispy, appears in front of him with its glossy eyes, he leans back and rubs his hands on the back of his neck. He doesn’t know that he does this. But that’s the connection. That’s what’s left of it.


Source: Matter Press, August 2013