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.