Gyoshoku danshi

魚食男子

Here’s a fish with salt
on his shoulder

         the ocean’s best
tasting son. His meat
a test of stamina

in a city ceramic.

Overshadowed
by glowing Fukushima
plumes. Waiting

         for low tide with
a bloated moon
on his back.

I’ve been grilled
over my own
          sadness.

I’ve been
my own patch
of drought grass

          seams split by
someone else’s
heat.

The serrated edge
          of patience
and my belly its
nest.

After this, I have no guts
to tie, no sausage joy.

I’ll drive your bus
into the barbeque
          pit and burn clean
through the bones

          your true-blue
dinosaur charcoal.

Wrap yourself in sugar
barnacles.

          You’re encrusted with tacks.
With snacks.

I’m here to write
a different man.

Shouldn’t we taste like
          warm, milky milk?

Drift into me
          fish. I’m the sweetest
seaweed you’ll ever

lick. Your devoted
          brackish coil of stars.

Your boss radio signal
aimed

          galactic north.