It was Peruvian ceviche,
it was months ago
I woke up thinking about raw fish. Pink,
tender, soaked in sweet acids, falling to shreds
between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
I thought about raw fish for days.
I thought about throwing the trout’s head
to a stray dog after eating the tiny pillow of its cheek.
My mother said that’s the best part of all, and that
you should leave the head on while you cook it
because it flavors the rest of the body. My stepfather
said, when I die, cook me with my head on.