RUSS KESLER
BLUEFISH
The bluefish is so full of himself
he cranks his steel jaw shut on the shank
of the hook. His flanks are firm, oiled
by mucus. Cold water has trimmed him.
The voltage of his surge made the line sing
in the guides. When I pulled him from the surf
a fingerling mullet clogged his throat.
These teeth are honed for slashing; the flat
yellow eye never closes. Goodness and mercy
aren’t part of the plan. I’ll lay him open, peel back
the skin. Salt water has rendered his flesh sweet.
The noon whistle started with a groan
and rose to a howl.
Dogs rolled out of sleep to stretch
and bark at shadows.
Some people sat to ham and cherry pies,
some drew up to cornbread and cold greens.
The whistle sat atop the water tower
where the town’s name shimmered in the sun.
The sound filled every street and house.
The time was noon, the day was every day.
