Sardine

Something magic like the

sardine can’s silver

scent and small fish

juices jumping on the counter.

Something to rest where small

thighs once nested. The baby palms

weren’t yet tall enough to

cook with their mother.

I eat them plain,

dipped in hearty oils

enough to baptize my

heated lungs and exhale the

piece of the sun that stays in

my heart.

I eat them to know

my tongue is real in the

early hours the day

hasn’t settled inside me /

the day hasn’t peeled away my

skin to show me my

veins.

Mother / like doctor /

pokes and stirs my blood.

She leaves me puddled

in a childhood room and

leaves teddy bears at my

feet to lap up what is left.

Father / like mold / is

sour, alive, humbling.

He draws the stuffing from

the bear’s belly to soak up

the sardine juices from his

dead daughter’s room.

I hate how she leaves behind

messes.

I hate the stench / stench

of the juice.

-Abigail Cain, Founder of Sardine Can