Sloan Asakura
Oyster shells can sing if they are empty
clams grip, lips tight with secrets
. my father with a cleaver and mallet
. . would cut through the adductor of a pismo clam
. . . i would press my hands to my ears
. . . the sound of a door slamming could open one.
the pier knows crab traps better than anyone
. the moss-wood with pretty ridges where the rope grinds
. . as we pull up the trap, dungeness crabs filling ice chests
. . . i hold them from behind, their pincers
. . . scramble to find me– a ghost they can only feel.
on the boat, ocean mist makes your eyes water
. fog clouds the threshold between sea and sky and
. . you forget they are not the same, that far endless grey
. . . you hook your fingers while unlipping the lingcod fish
. . . its black marble eyes watching the reaper’s red-water hands
they used to walk out the door early, five fishing poles
. dark against the blue street lights filtering through the window
. . and upon their return the sun had set, the gold lights on the patio
. . . shimmered off the scales of the silver tuna, the blade running pretty
. . . through the red belly, hand inside pulling those red strings tight, into the bowl
. . . . and i watched every tender gesture of the knife, the calluses on my father’s hands
. . . . his crooked fingers, i could swear they were open, bloody against that ocean teardrop.
About the writer:
Sloan Asakura is a poet and memoirist originally from Los Angeles, now braving the Pacific Northwest. They have been previously published in Jeopardy Magazine, Rigorous, The Mantle, and Rogue Agent. Asakura is a founder and editor of MAWTH. In their free time, they can be found cooking comfort food, gardening, and contemplating persimmons.
Image: Mermaid Syndrome by George Grie (1962- ). Oil on canvas. No size specified. By 2006. By free license.
