Trout Eyes

The child eats trout eyes.
Like grapes, they pop

in her mouth. The skins
taste like smoke. She

likes to be seen chewing,
her lips white with oil.

Being unbearable occurs
to her. It’s like music,

Eminem in Grandpa’s
sauna. Brow scaled with

sweat, she trips into fire
twice before learning

to walk forward while
raking stones from sand.

Nothing has to happen,
but she questions it.

She brings beer to Uncle
and drinks lake water

on the low. On the dock,
barefoot, her mother

speaks to Sudbury loons.
The child’s language

is inadequate. She sings
in English on an over-

turned tub. Someone
brings her fishing. They

call her by her sister’s
name, which is a garden.

She feeds dirt to the
worms, fingernails black

brown. Uncle tosses trout
in the boat. Later he’ll

burn them on the BBQ,
and someone’ll pass the

child a paper plate. When
she chews, a minnow

will slip from her left ear.
The slime will stain her

tight tankini. She likely
needs a new one anyhow.