The street with blue fish
She is walking as if she avoided stepping
On cracked shells that could bruise her soles,
She is walking in patience although
She hears the rush of the cars
And of the people carried by daily tremor.
She’s stepping on twigs, splintering them,
Tries to keep her skin not prickled
By wind, and passers by and gravitation,
Her own blood is at rush, cells bumping
Into one another in the shortness of her breath.
To be there, to let them see what she had seen,
The dropping of numbers in the business,
His despise for having settled a poor affair,
Affair of numbers, affair of dice cast randomly,
Affairs of eyes looking down to or upon
In glittering corners, askance.
And passing by a fish shop, she felt the smell
Of the dying sea, the roar of the waves
Bringing silver-blue fish to the shore,
Nets uplifted, the many creatures
Taken out form their cold waters’ warmth,
And trampled, sailors crying out, their limbs’
Cold heaviness, lifting and screaming,
Sorting and dropping down all those
Unwanted by the omnivorous.
She felt the salty odor, she saw blue fish dropped
From ladies’ purses, bags, teenager’s schoolbags,
Pale fish, stoned, left on pavement,
Unwanted, like sand satchels thrownFrom miniature ships while adrift.