Register Monday | June 17 | 2019

Gutting

A poem

Peel back the squirming tentacles
and slice the beak out like the stem
of a pumpkin. As I flip its head inside-
out, I can’t help thinking sentience
of a four-year-old child, can escape
from a screwed-down mason jar, emotions
are displayed through shifting
skin colour
. The dead, still-groping body
in my hands is dark, its sepia fluid
soaking into my sweater and gloves.
I bring the glinting blade down and
cut the blue-grey guts away, catch
my reflection in the steel-shaft
mirror: guilt-wracked, gut-sick
for two bucks a pound, fish feed,
tako sushi on Robson Street.