Pretending to be enchanted
we drift off from the seasonal market

no family to cook for

to the gravitas of the fish stalls
their white vans reversed up, backs thrown open
fresh as the vendors scooping brine into geometric trays, kneeling

no ice — Baltic sea

They lift the eels
silver entwined strands; loving each other
into boxes, for our eyes only

piccolo-gills opening, shutting
one chooses your hand/arm

and we are told it’s carp for Christ’s birthday
flat-faced and palmed onto a serving platter                   at midnight