​Pike Place
Adi Martin-Ruben


​In my bedroom you arrive to me
by tugboat, holding a mangled fish.
This is the last tuna, we will lay it out
on a long table, raw,
we will light candles.

How do I square my body away,
scramble the calculator on my scalp,
leave my mind unfinished?

I sit in your boat like a honeycomb,
a slow drip. Imagine baseball bats, imagine long guilt.
​Sometimes the only solution is to cut off the hands.

Between the stuttering fat of the last tuna
and the folding water

we peel the skin away and take a bite.

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