Cleaning Crappie
by Beth Cagle Burt
Staring across the mimosa-lined yard,
I implode and turn to flapping fish on
Daddy’s chopping block. Don’t think.
Scrape the blade against the flaking scales
leaving surface marbled, gray, defenseless.
Do it. Slice a soft belly from gills to tail;
fingers sink and follow the knife line,
spilling pungent heart and clinging eggs.
Chopping the head, tail, and dorsal fins, I
toss the gutless mass in Mama’s salt bath,
saving it. Don’t look. I haul up a wide-eyed
crappie from bucket, flailing in my hands;
my jaws jerk open and close. The odor of
hot grease emanates from the next room.