EDUARDO’S

EDUARDO’S

EDUARDO’S

In a restaurant made from the thin arms 
of a tree embracing a white-washed room,
I eat strips of duck and strands of almond 
prepared by a stooped Belgian gentleman.
A wall of glass separates me from him,
and within this wall swim miniature
tropical fish, all black and red stripes,
mother-of-pearl and orange polka dots.
The fish and I go eyeball-to-eyeball,
the tip of my nose touching
the bumpy nodules atop each flat face
and the gauzy fins billowing
and flicking as they whirr past my ear,
up and down the watery wall.
I dive into a Douro red and the flashy fish
and the silver-haired gentleman and I swim
into and out of each other. He slices pink duck-
breast and flambés raspberries in vodka 
and the thin brown arms of the tree squeeze 
us closer and the chalky fringe of the low ceiling 
blanches the top of my head.