Fish

It wasn't I who killed the fish.
It was the soup. It was a sin to drink it.
Not to mention the flesh. A greater sin.
A greater indulgence.
By the kitchen sink, my aunt held a fish
as if holding the Holy Body.
A shaft of sun leaned in to behold
the scene, to assist the sacrifice
by turning into a knife, shelling the fish
flake after flake. The fish thrashed
like a lamb. I thought it was a lamb.
Small one. A sincere sacrifice.
My aunt nodded, granting this convulsion
a gentle consent. After all,
it was a clean doing. No blood. Only
the white scales descended
like pear blossoms, wafting the metallic scent
of snow. That's how lingchi
was invented 1,000 years ago by some
wise Chinese. A sinner was put
to death by slicing 3,600 pieces of flesh
from the body. This slow slicing
was recorded as an indulgence to watch.
I watched this fish-blue were its eyes,
wide open like two wintry mountains.
"It is an art to cook the soup,"
says my aunt. This sweet stew of milk
thickens as I churn. The soup white.
So white, as if all our sins will be washed
when we drink it. The body
of the fish intact. It seems we've only borrowed
the fish to produce this white soup.
And it will come back to life as soon
as I put it into water. It is in water.
"Drink it hot," my aunt says, "the flesh
is soft." This flesh tender,