Resurrecting Fish    

The bony one is for the soup shops in Pontianak,
Their fat in the fish-balls.

The odd catch—the blowfish, puffed up with fear, wiry eel.
Or common—the catfish raised from the bottom.

One is a precious ornamental, gold fins and red along the gills.
For them, we keep water high in our boats. They'll sell in Singapore.

Fish, ikan, they move in patterns that ripple upriver.
Caught in bamboo weirs, cast nets, on hooks,

Lured up by the crushed taproot.  They come to us trusting.
Our waiting spears in hand, legs muscled in the bow.

It isn't when they are moving or when their hearts are open to the sky.
It's when you see their bones—those fine and tender lines.