Poetry / September 2012 (Issue 18)


Eels

by Dorothy Chan

As you sit at the dinner table chewing in my direction, thinking about how you want me for dinner, let me tell you what I want for dinner, because this is what the eels in Tsuen Wan did to me as they produced this chewing motion with their mouths and sucked me in as their dinner. I became their dinner and their dessert, their dessert that was much sweeter than the urine and aged seafood remnants they usually smelled in their tank. I was a dessert that they couldn't resist as I first felt one of their slimy mouths smooch my entire head and push down into the rest of my body so that I only had my big toe sticking out, and then this eel passed me to another eel until I only had one strand of hair sticking out. So, I was passed back and forth between these eels like some lab specimen that went from tube to tube, or at least it felt like some tank orgy—not something that only involves two people, but cramped in a small space with rope-like creatures lurking around. By the time even that one strand of hair couldn't breathe, I wished to jet out of the tank like a lurking eel, gasping for those few seconds free of the water. By the time even that one strand of hair couldn't breathe, I lurked out of the tube orgy by the otter-tail sways of my body and a thrust that unknotted me from the numerous orgy knots these creatures made. And by this time, I cannot stop panting as I watch you chewing in my direction.
 
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