I stabbed the knife
spilling eggs from catfish bellies
masses of pearl
emptied before eyes
going cold.
The cats come from nowhere
come on the road of fish smell
and they are as strange in this dry place
as tulips growing among dead weeds.
The sun bakes and bleaches the land
fish-belly white.
Night is a blessing
and the moon passes over thirsty ground
like a star over fire.
The fish are gone now
driven by summer,
having worked their silver bodies
into mud, caked
and waiting for rain.
Hooked on old habits
and seeing the moon
float by in daylight,
I catch the knife
and slit the pale crescent.
Its bowels trail down.
The sun beats with blades of fire
glinting over metal.
The heat throbs my temples.
The cats come from nowhere.