Stain my subsidiary skin with silverside

And splice or slice

For a bath, a basking of salt.


Flayed filets call

For the silver stripes of painted tripe

But left a smattering of subordinate old.

“Never mind cantankerous—

They’re cast in gold—

And gold is good enough for rancorous.”

So I’ve been told.


To pay the price of preparation,

Shimmy out the bones of my body.

But if you need advice for filets of fish,

Let me slip my sins out of these scales

And flip into the pan for the fire.


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