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.