I walk naked to the refrigerator,pull out the bowl of eelwaiting on the top shelf. Other daysoatmeal or scrambled eggs,but late Sunday morning,after a long nightof perilous love making,it must be eel. Marinated,layered over rice. The cold eelshimmers in my palm. I kissthe puckered lips, tasteocean breath and remembermyself, slippery and longunder sun-slanted depths, swayingto the whine of boats overhead.I did not need you then, my scalesshining in their pristine sea.And I am not saying I regretthe way you coaxed my tailinto 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 waitfor that insistent tide, drawing meback into the swell.