Kristin Camitta Zimet

At my left eye's periphery
nine angels rise and sink
in the electric sunlight,
in the salinity of tears,
the nine cubic feet of tank
in the wall of the sushi bar.

What made them swim
into the scoop-net, cross-hairs
knotting time with place?
Slip on mucosal skin
as black as miso soup,
soft as soy dissolving?

With gothic lip, lifesaver eyes,
they hover at my side.
They fan lateral fins,
stirring an airless church;
a steamy sermon without sound
ripples my skin.

They execute a turn
on a dwarf picket line,
or like a judge in chambers, pace
the same slow turn that screws
clockwise the cool Atlantic
till I start to twist

and rise up like a cork.
Twiddling chopstick antennae,
sideways I sink my head
toward my trencher.
Nine coffins of rice.
My raw filets.