Earl J. Wilcox
Faster Than Skinning a Cat
At the fish market—a tin shack
beside a busy road in our town
—we go to buy fresh catfish.
In the shack two big, bearded
men in wet, stained aprons,
joke and poke each other while
customers gawk at bluish, black
cats swimming happily in large
aluminum vats. Fresh water
dripping softly from spouts give
the room a feeling of coolness,
a sound of hilly spring fountains
covered with ferns, wildflowers.
Dad and I saunter to a vat, watch
happy, whiskered fish shimmy
in circles, waiting to be chosen.
We choose a lively one, lift it with
a net from the clear waters, lay it
on a scale. Holding the squirming
fish in his heavy-gloved hand,
the man in the blood-stained apron
grabs a long, black electric prod,
touches it to the cat’s head. No
more flopping.
Using a sharp meat cleaver, the man
decapitates the head in two strokes.
Lifting the fish in one hand, he slits
its pudgy belly. Guts spill into a pan.
Using sharp tweezers for skinning
the cat faster than you can repeat
the cliché, he wraps the body in
newspaper.
Earl Wilcox, a retired university English professor, began writing poetry about 5 years ago at
age 71. His work now appears in several print and online journals such as The Centrifugal Eye,
Lunarosity, Southern Gothic, The Poetry Super Highway, Word Riot, Underground Voices,
The New Verse News, and KAKALAK. He writes about aging, literary figures, southern
culture, birds, and baseball, among many other topics.
Home
Issue Two
Faster Than Skinning a Cat
At the fish market—a tin shack
beside a busy road in our town
—we go to buy fresh catfish.
In the shack two big, bearded
men in wet, stained aprons,
joke and poke each other while
customers gawk at bluish, black
cats swimming happily in large
aluminum vats. Fresh water
dripping softly from spouts give
the room a feeling of coolness,
a sound of hilly spring fountains
covered with ferns, wildflowers.
Dad and I saunter to a vat, watch
happy, whiskered fish shimmy
in circles, waiting to be chosen.
We choose a lively one, lift it with
a net from the clear waters, lay it
on a scale. Holding the squirming
fish in his heavy-gloved hand,
the man in the blood-stained apron
grabs a long, black electric prod,
touches it to the cat’s head. No
more flopping.
Using a sharp meat cleaver, the man
decapitates the head in two strokes.
Lifting the fish in one hand, he slits
its pudgy belly. Guts spill into a pan.
Using sharp tweezers for skinning
the cat faster than you can repeat
the cliché, he wraps the body in
newspaper.
Earl Wilcox, a retired university English professor, began writing poetry about 5 years ago at
age 71. His work now appears in several print and online journals such as The Centrifugal Eye,
Lunarosity, Southern Gothic, The Poetry Super Highway, Word Riot, Underground Voices,
The New Verse News, and KAKALAK. He writes about aging, literary figures, southern
culture, birds, and baseball, among many other topics.
Home
Issue Two
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Chickenpinata
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| issue two |