Surrounded by flounder,
salt in our hair,
my father and I kneel on a pier.

We're sunburned after all day
in a small open boat.
I am six, my father - ?

He doesn't seem old.
He is handsome, charming,
his moustache is trim.

How many women has he
already loved ... I grow up
to love many men.

Does he ever wonder about
this part of my life ... He tells me
of his affairs one afternoon

while records spin gypsy guitars
and in the next room, without warning
my mother dumbfounds us by dying.

At six, I worry only how will we clean
all these platter-shaped fish
whose eyes migrated topside.

My father takes a thin knife,
slits bellies, dumps guts
for minnows darting like bees.

Then he teaches me to filet:
grip the throat of the tail,
slice terribly close to the bones.