Napoleon At The Fish Market

     by Mark Taksa

The judge studies the fish as if it were a constitutional issue.
We reach for that same fin, as if it was the last cocktail
at the fund raiser for the plaintiff for love.
Imagining her own lips in the smile over my book
of recipes, the judge promises to let me buy the halibut
if I come to her chamber to teach her to cook.

The fish dealer takes the ice from under the fin
and drops it into his cocktail. He inhales
as if the fishy odor is perfume and says
Napoleon loved a woman with a fishy odor
and bought her the best silk, would
have paid the high price of this halibut.

The tightness of the judge’s jeans
reveals her path of judgment. From her gaze, I guess she is judging
whether the hand she waits for me to stick under my shirt,
in the pose of the emperor, should slide under hers.

When I was a kid I was schooled by an old tire I stole.
Its explosion announced my bad grade.
When my buddies drove away to witness the girls
wiggle on the boardwalk, I patched rubber—
so I buy the halibut without knowing its price.