Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Uncle Horatio

The red snapper tasted like a tire last night.
It lay on the plate
hard and rubbery
and inedible.
No amount of olive oil or lemon or herb
could turn it into something it wasn’t
and had never been.
I took it back to the grocery store this morning.
I slid its body
across the counter
to the Spanish manager
with the wooden bracelets.
She looked at it
like it were a dead relative
she once knew.
An uncle,
named Horatio.
Poor Horatio,
never even made it out of Cuba
or out of my oven.
Now, he’s dead
and there’s no one to give him a decent burial.
“I tried my best, “ I told her.
She nodded and understood
then she threw Uncle Horatio in the trash.
I thought of him sitting there rotting
while I walked up and down the grocery aisles.
She threw coffee grinds on top of him to kill the smell
and dreamed of Cuba and all the other uncles
she would never know.