Kristin Camitta Zimet Sushi At my left eye's periphery nine angels rise and sink in the electric sunlight, in the salinity of tears, the nine cubic feet of tank in the wall of the sushi bar. What made them swim into the scoop-net, cross-hairs knotting time with place? Slip on mucosal skin as black as miso soup, soft as soy dissolving? With gothic lip, lifesaver eyes, they hover at my side. They fan lateral fins, stirring an airless church; a steamy sermon without sound ripples my skin. They execute a turn on a dwarf picket line, or like a judge in chambers, pace the same slow turn that screws clockwise the cool Atlantic till I start to twist and rise up like a cork. Twiddling chopstick antennae, sideways I sink my head toward my trencher. Nine coffins of rice. My raw filets. |