The Women Who Clean Fish

　　by Erica Funkhouser

　　 The women who clean fish are all named Rose

　　 or Grace. They wake up close to the water，

　　 damp and dreamy beneath white sheets，

　　 thinking of white beaches.

　　 It is always humid where they work.

　　 Under plastic aprons， their breasts

　　 foam and bubble. They wear old clothes

　　 because the smell will never go.

　　 On the floor， chlorine.

　　 On the window， dry streams left by gulls.

　　 When tourists come to watch them

　　 working over belts of cod and hake，

　　 they don't look up.

　　 They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts

　　 they pack the bodies in， ten per box，

　　 their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.

　　 The dead fish fall compliantly.

　　 It is the iridescent scales that stick，

　　 clinging to cheek and wrist，

　　 lighting up hours later in a dark room.

　　 The packers say they feel orange spawn

　　 between their fingers， the smell of themselves

　　 more like salt than peach.

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