the fishmonger
In my dream we are terrible fish
mouths slicing our cheeks
as we siphon kelp
Sometimes we hide in the green
from the ripple and flash
of the diver and her mask
Then over the ledge
through the dark water we fall
watched by The Old Man of HoyAnd the sea hides us
under her chop and swell
But that diver with her lens
has followed us down –
down down down down
past the horrible present
and the absurd tolling knellWhat are the secrets
I will never uncover
even with a camera and a knife?Now that the ferryman is gone
all that remains is your absence
and the shadow of the woman in the rubber suitAnd still that diver shines images
floats them to me
in memory of your mouth –widened in death
so that instead of a pucker for a kiss
or the broadness of a smile
just a gaping black ohIn remembrance of your lips –
now the surreal purple of live labia
their applied colour offed by holy palmers
not content to finger your clothes
the stone from Arran hidden between you clasped hands
or the Black Watch blanket over your legsThey brush your mouth with theirs
leaving you in a mounted bass contortion
Beautiful work to some
an unearthly alum to meI’d rather a photograph of the salty lick of your tongue
on an ice cream after a walkAll this in the mirror’s extent
below
the terrible fish
of my own reflection
(m)otherlessbut I am her and she is me
forever in fins and black rubber
no matter the roll and swell
of dotted ice
double bergsor the thunderous crack
of Easter melt
~ Anne Sorbie
Anne Sorbie was born in Paisley, Scotland and she lives and writes in Calgary. Her work has appeared in journals such as The Wascana Review, Alberta Views, Geist, and Other Voices, and in the anthology, Home and Away. Anne’s first novel, Memoir of a Good Death (Thistledown Press 2010) was on the long-list for the 2012 Alberta Readers’ Choice Award.
You can read more poems by Anne here.
This poem was read by Anne on November 2,2014, as part of the RE:act Art & Community Together Plus 15 Poetry Shuffle!
Kudos to Anne Sorbie. An astonishing poem. Her image of labia, in context, is unlike anything I have seen, especially from a woman; although it does put me in mind of Sharon Olds.
I came across this poem thanks to Bruce Hunter’s post on FaceBook.