Good Friday

We wake to find two trout waggling in the sink.
The olive green polka dots and stripes of steel pink
plume father's threadbare blue handkerchief-
my brother and I, perched on tools, dip and wiggle.
By noon, we've assembled scales into necklaces and fingernails.

Mother layers our roe jar with a fresh film of heather pink. 
Garlic and parslied lard melt upwards and pelt
kitchen walls dressed top to bottom in magazine brides 
Gone with the Wind sweeping gowns, cascades of tulle,
pearl-beaded bodices, crinolines perfectly flounced),

and when we gather around the garnished fish
we hardly speak: the meticulous defleshing-a supplicant's work.
Mother presses her lips to father's cheek,
then smudges the deep coral with her wrist.

Father cuts the round heap of coarse corn porridge
- mamaliga - with a butter-combed string,
brushes Mother's fingers in the lemon & garlic dip,
parts the crisped sheath to let the succulent flesh cool.

Mother kneads each morsel of fish between her lips,
then entices us with the inspected bits
- For good luck, she says, which I take to mean
being first to spot the ration truck,
grab my brother, and hurtle to the doubling line.

I try to read my brother's eyes:
he dreams the next truck will haul not
bread, fish, or flour, but oranges -
hard sweet foreign fruit brighter than our full moon.
I cannot ask him if I've guessed:
We never say our wishes aloud,
never name our fish.

~Mihaela Moscaliuc (Father Dirt, 2009)

Author Notes

Two AJB Authors win NAACP Image Awards!