Lemonizing
I fileted a flounder with a dull knife.
Ran the dark silver under a chunk of flesh, ticking against the thin bones The flounder was made to be separated
To please others in her broken form.
I lied.
I only made the first incision
My father finished while
I sat smelling the metallic scene.
It reminded me of him describing my birth
The most poetic thing he’s ever said:
Beana, there were so many colors coming out of your mother, the darkest purple you’ll ever see.
When he finished the massacre,
He said he needed to lemonize his hands.
I felt like a traitor to this muddy creature to watch it battered and fried
Stuffed into a taco
Surrendered to hands and mouths that needed lemonizing.