buying fish

so many fish
so many fish, their cold
grey bodies, still
limp from the sea,
with flat eyes
in tact, unseeing
the ice
they lie in.
trout and cod,
rockfish, mackerel.
laid out in lines
with their own kind,
marked up or down
per size
and weight, freshness,
perhaps. you hope.
the date of capture a small
ink smudge on
a sticky tab.
you choose none of that
and buy
the clean cut of pink
salmon, palm sized,
farm or wild, matters little
to you.
you like to buy
food without eyes,
or heads
or the things within
them, still in place,
but now unused.