One of a number of impressions of Palermo briefly made intelligible while leaving on a bus.
the smoke of charred carcass rises from the alley in plumes;
the roller-door restaurant is open for business.
he deftly guts the octopi –
thick, worn fingers push into the orifices, tentacles draping
over the hairy wrist like lover’s legs,
eyeballs disappearing into the bucket
of miscellaneous sea-creature pieces.
he plunges it into a bucket of water,
first cold to rinse then
boiling, then dismembered and curled about spaghetti or
straight onto the plate like a puppet,
steam rising from the suckers.
