Poetry

Swordfish

by Andrew Hudgins

My fingertips marveled at the silvery shimmer,

already less silver, less shimmery than when it lived.

I never again should cause flesh this beautiful

to be less beautiful, I thought.

At supper

—swordfish—my brother offered up his neighbor

for conversation. He'd shotgunned every TV

in his house, even the puny black-and-white

on the kitchen counter. Buckshot shattered black

granite and splintered yards of Golden Oak.

It wasn't election time or football season.

Maybe his kids had watched Debbie do Dallas.

In the unexpected hush as we considered

slaughtered appliances, my brother's drinking buddy

told my girlfriend she was a pretty lady,

a real pretty lady. She looked like a dream.

One day she'd make a real man really happy.

I barked three hard flat laughs. The lit friend winced

as each blast turned his cheeks a richer red.

My girlfriend closed her eyes and opened them,

her azure eyelids shimmering with jade.