I forked the coleslaw around my plate, made faces out of the butter-clump of mashed potatoes, and gutted the fish sticks. It tasted like bad chicken, like the duck meat my grandmother would use when she made blood soup. The fish was chewy and stuck between my teeth. It turned to sticky mulch. My father dumped the last of them onto my plate, and he gnawed on the thigh of my mothers' chicken. He said we had to eat before the 'run. I heard the fish swimming in my gut. My belly button is like a conch shell, or so I imagined. The ocean in my gut was wide and I had to hold it in with over-sized pants, the buckle loosed to the last hole. My father was the fisherman. My gut the ocean. And I couldn't swim.
That was earlier, and now my father and I went to stab the river. He was like Moses, striking the river. It seemed like something split in two. I tried to do the same. I raised my spear, and stuck it into the riverbed. I pierced his middle toe.
submitted at 7:30pm
6 February 2012