He guides the knife in and runs it
along the ridge of backbone.
Slices through the section
at the base of the tail
and turns it
over trout opening like a butterfly.
He guts it and removes
the inter-muscular spines,
the rib bones, the ventral bones.
opalescent in the light.
A deep odour clings
to the back of the throat.
But it is the scales that stick
to him, iridescent
and light up hours later in the dark
We gather up oranges and dahlias
and the first yield of almond blossom,
our sneakers mining footprints in the clay.
Beyond the olive grove
evening retreats across the Serra de Tramuntana,
blood-red and vanishing.
The days and nights of Mallorca pass us
by these small miracles.
Her loss the steady rumbling beneath,
his delicate kisses bred in her,
tender and going.