Fesh

by Dicko King

Connacht men, even our new boys,

would have the first fish out of water

one of us.

But it was another.

She was footed from the start,

and gorgeous legs they were,

slick as mud, and her armored

head blistered with teeth.

She was game for a walk.

No beauty, no hagfish either,

and elbows—a hint of them, and

oily finger nubs knuckling in

and under till she was up—

a lovely smile back to her swiveled neck

—a fish with a neck.

Not jawless or boney­headed,

but flex. Oh. . . there was sex there

in that beguiling twist she took,

that belly flop she made

in Africa.