With the first I hesitated
at the moment of twisting,
and threw it, head half off,
into the river. The next one
I held hard, while quick-wristed
I snapped it in two
like a fresh green bean.
My mother taught me
how to kill shrimp:
one deft twist
severs the body we keep
from the head that’s tossed
like an offering
back to the brackish river.
She also taught me
the net in the teeth,
the way the body twists,
then uncoils—spreading
the weighted edge out
into an arc of release
and plunge to the water.
She showed me the pulling-in
with live shrimp tangled
in the net’s small weave.
But she did not tell me, “Remember.
Remember.” That was joy:
the body living and moving
through time. That was the Muse
and her endless lust
for memory and words:
salty rag taste of the net,
beefy smell of the mealy bait,
muddy shine of the shrimp,
and splash of the net striking the water.
at the moment of twisting,
and threw it, head half off,
into the river. The next one
I held hard, while quick-wristed
I snapped it in two
like a fresh green bean.
My mother taught me
how to kill shrimp:
one deft twist
severs the body we keep
from the head that’s tossed
like an offering
back to the brackish river.
She also taught me
the net in the teeth,
the way the body twists,
then uncoils—spreading
the weighted edge out
into an arc of release
and plunge to the water.
She showed me the pulling-in
with live shrimp tangled
in the net’s small weave.
But she did not tell me, “Remember.
Remember.” That was joy:
the body living and moving
through time. That was the Muse
and her endless lust
for memory and words:
salty rag taste of the net,
beefy smell of the mealy bait,
muddy shine of the shrimp,
and splash of the net striking the water.