I walk naked to the refrigerator,
pull out the bowl of eel

waiting on the top shelf. Other days
oatmeal or scrambled eggs,

but late Sunday morning,
after a long night

of perilous love making,
it must be eel. Marinated,

layered over rice. The cold eel
shimmers in my palm. I kiss

the puckered lips, taste
ocean breath and remember

myself, slippery and long
under sun-slanted depths, swaying

to the whine of boats overhead.
I did not need you then, my scales

shining in their pristine sea.
And I am not saying I regret

the way you coaxed my tail
into legs—the salty split— 

or the woman I’ve become.
But sometimes, late Sunday morning,

I eat eel with my hands,
forget the napkins and wait

for that insistent tide, drawing me
back into the swell.