In one smooth motion, I seal the filet
inside a plastic womb. The safest place.
I assume that this fish was male, but it’s
hard to say. Males have heavy jaws, big heads.
In mating season, fish heads swell. Protrude.
While males bulk up and redden, the females
turn green. I can’t make this up.
I perform a funeral in a deep,
shiny pot. Gently, I offer the fish
to the water, its rosy flesh bathed in
honey and miso, banded like a tree
stump. I try to read between the white lines;
the moral is lost in the marinade.
Segments of flesh never kiss and tell.