Sometimes your words cleave into me
Like that bonti* that ploughs through the fish
The head, cut apart through the middle
Dead pan eye looking at me
Accusingly. I, yes, I am the reason
You were dragged from the water
Out of the languid depths of the pond
That was your home. I thought
I would stop eating fish forever
When I saw that eye.
But I like its crunchy softness
The hard lens as it slips in my mouth.
Round and unforgiving.
Forgive me but my words have no intent
To beg or grieve. I like eating that fish head
Now and again. Pull apart succulent flesh
From the head, pick at bones not thinking
Of the fish as it lay upon the bonti
Staring at me accusingly.
Just as you don’t care that your words wound me
you’d do it again, willingly, unthinkingly
for the punch upon your palate.
*A very sharp large cleaver fixed on a wooden slab used by fishermen to cut fish.