The Little Mouthfuls

She wears black chiffon and eats a Gulf shrimp
In seven bites. The blue vein in her finger
Rising each time like ink. A dark change
Takes over her face as if walking

Under heavy boughs just rained on
In late spring. Her eyes click, holding sight
Of someone rowing in a distant boat.

The host pours shaved ice
Into the empty bowl we are seated around.
None of us look up. She’s telling us
The secret about the smoke shooting out
Of the trout’s mouth the minute she snagged it
And it broke clear above the lake’s surface.
She wrapped it in an orange and black cellophane bag,
Sat on a slatted bench and watched under her
The natural outcome of her dream
That morning. Waking out of it, it felt

She said, that she was without hands
And feet. She wanted to be round
Or like song, without desire, didn’t want
Her voice to crack like ribs or skin
In the open sunlight. Was it for him,
The oarsman, we wondered, that she turned,
Picked up an open half of pomegranate
And held it to her mouth like a respirator cup
Pulling in all of the dark queen pearls,
The empty center that was them hiding together.