On Wanting to Tell [ ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes

—how her loose curls float above each silver fish as she leans in to pluck its eyes— You died just hours ago. Not suddenly, no. You'd been dying so long nothing looked like itself: from your window, fishermen swirled sequins; fishnets entangled the moon. Now the dark rain looks like dark rain. Only the wine shimmers with candlelight. I refill the glasses and we raise a toast to you as so and so's daughter—elfin, jittery as a sparrow— slides into another lap to eat another pair of slippery eyes with her soft fingers, fingers rosier each time, for being chewed a little. If only I could go to you, revive you. You must be a little alive still. I'd like to put this girl in your lap. She's almost feverishly warm and she weighs hardly anything. I want to show you how she relishes each eye, to show you her greed for them. She is placing one on her tongue, bright as a polished coin— What do they taste like? I ask. Twisting in my lap, she leans back sleepily. They taste like eyes, she says.