Wedged between a styrofoam pack of dumpling
skins and 2 blocks of butter, there's just one
plastic bag containing the last of the dried
fish you bought, the summer of 2015, from
the market in Cebu. They are so stinky
and deliciously potent, you plug the steam
vent of the frying pan lid with foil, take it
out to the deck when you're ready
to lift them onto a plate. They're briny
as the oceans they're from, steeped
in currents of smoky kelp and an old
current lined with the flavor of tears. Two
or three are enough, but only if helped along
by a mountain of garlic fried rice. One
morsel is compact as a stone— in its core,
hiding the acrid streak of thirst and regret,
of search and search for something you might
never find again. Luck has nothing to do
with this; not love, nor worth. It's said
the body instinctively craves what
it lacks or needs— That must be why you
move toward the ghost of it, just as any
creature in the woods might hunt the scent
of phosphorus and biometals in the clay.
