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Description
Hidden in my scars are small towns with real histories.
My skin is as frozen and ragged as Southern Savonia,
scabbed over with lakes.
My lips are as cracked as the dirt underneath Haukivuori,
where we occupy this room.

Outside, a man drowned
in fur drills
a hole in the frozen water. He skims
the ice; a perfect tunnel.
He lowers his line and waits.

It is cold: Draw up your hood. Put on your mittens.
They say ice fishing is relaxing.

You carve a hole
in my mouth
with your mouth. You lure
my tongue with your tongue.
With your heart, bait my heart.
It is a salmon struggling
upstream it careens around my lungs
slithers through my esophagus
and slips

past my teeth into your palms. It writhes
in the condensation of our breath.
They say, on cold enough nights, you can hear the ice groan.

Slice the belly of the fish, chisel
out the guts. Saw the flesh
from the ribcage, from the backbone.
Pry the skin away with knife; discard.
Fry the fish.
Pink and nearly raw, it makes your tongue

shrivel. You should have prepared
it as the Finns would, as graavilohi.
Fillet of salmon, skin side down in a bed of salt
exposed fleshy side caressed with more salt and dill. Blanket
with foil; let the flavors bloom
in a cool place for a few days.
Cut the salmon into delicate slices.

I eat the fish instead. I don’t want it to spoil
in a grave of china and dirty forks.

Description
Hidden in my scars are small towns with real histories.
My skin is as frozen and ragged as Southern Savonia,
scabbed over with lakes.
My lips are as cracked as the dirt underneath Haukivuori,
where we occupy this room.

Outside, a man drowned
in fur drills
a hole in the frozen water. He skims
the ice; a perfect tunnel.
He lowers his line and waits.

It is cold: Draw up your hood. Put on your mittens.
They say ice fishing is relaxing.

You carve a hole
in my mouth
with your mouth. You lure
my tongue with your tongue.
With your heart, bait my heart.
It is a salmon struggling
upstream it careens around my lungs
slithers through my esophagus
and slips

past my teeth into your palms. It writhes
in the condensation of our breath.
They say, on cold enough nights, you can hear the ice groan.

Slice the belly of the fish, chisel
out the guts. Saw the flesh
from the ribcage, from the backbone.
Pry the skin away with knife; discard.
Fry the fish.
Pink and nearly raw, it makes your tongue

shrivel. You should have prepared
it as the Finns would, as graavilohi.
Fillet of salmon, skin side down in a bed of salt
exposed fleshy side caressed with more salt and dill. Blanket
with foil; let the flavors bloom
in a cool place for a few days.
Cut the salmon into delicate slices.

I eat the fish instead. I don’t want it to spoil
in a grave of china and dirty forks.