My Woman Won't Make Me Catfish

the deckhand

says they too ugly, the worst to dress.I ask her, Can't you look away?Maybe I look away and maybe I cut you.She grabs my crotch, smiles her gap-toothed smile,the one that lets me sleep nights on the steamboat.

The only other woman in my life is the crew cook.Her hair is too short, and she eats while she cooks—always greasy-looking.She don't fool with any of our mess, takes a smokeif we giving out but don't say nothing but RememberI'm working and thinking of home just like you.

Dear God, may one of these women be nearwhen I need sewing up or take a bullet.I watch the cook standing outside the kitchen door, knifeand pliers hooking a catfish mouth, snipping the tail off first.Four slits down the sides, more like a gray sheetthan scales. Pull. Rips that skin right and quicklike a whole life. No start and stop. The cook never reuses the oil. A murky bottom feederin something clear, finally seen. Turning in the skillet,a golden bath, sides covered just right.

I have watched the boat's paint fade in summerand have always known the letters of my captain's name.Dear God, let these women be the firstto tear what's needed, stop my red from leaving me.Crisp cornmeal and egg, a white pillow for my wore-out life.Let my last meal be fried catfish.Between bites, I'll open my mouth,making my own damn steam stacks, profit in a meat not my own.