writing piece, #1

He rips the hook from its mouth. The fish falls. It hits onto the floor of the canoe. The fish is brown. An orange tint speckles its sides. The boat is old. It is full of patches and leaks. The pool of water rocks the fish towards my feet. My sandals are on the opposite end of the canoe. The fish hits my bare feet. I feel scales. It flops against my left foot. More water slowly saturates through the cracks. Its my job to scoop it out. Leo passes me the half of a soda bottle. The fish flops again. My host father grabs a plank of wood. He beats the fish over the head. Tucunaré, he says. Leo hits it again. He hits the fish two more times. It flops no more. Its mouth hangs open. Some fish blood has landed next to my feet.

Twenty minutes pass. I hear the sound of the motor. I hear a few birds off in the distance. A dolphin breaks the surface of the water. Wood and leaves break the same surface. The varzea is a flooded forest. Its water is black. It is acidic. One cannot see anything underneath. Leo asks me about America. He asks about my family. He asks if we have farinha there. Language hinders my response. The canoe reaches the village. The dark Rio Negro runs up against the shore. My host father hands me a fish to hold. He takes the other one. He takes his knife and fish to the wooden dock. Minutes pass. It smells of fish guts.

The house is up the hill. Wet laundry hangs across the porch. We approach it. The chickens scuttle under the foundation of the home. Leo kicks off his sandals. I do the same. Him and I both hold the cleaned fish. We walk up the five wooden steps. A dog barks from underneath. The home has two rooms. Nubia is in the kitchen. Leo greets his wife. We bring the two fish into the room. I wait in my hammock. The others are tied up to the rafters. One is white. One is orange. One is green. Mine is blue.

The stove and oven run off the community generator. I hear the fish skin cackling. It cackles amongst lemon juice and butter. He adds salt. It cackles more. It is the most delicious fish in the world. Leo takes the head for himself. Manly, he tells me. Fish juice and skin are stuck to my fingers. Ana Paula and Neto come into the room. They have been outside. They watched the community play soccer. Futebol. They fight over who gets to eat the eyeballs. They are two and six years old. The later takes the fish eyes from his father. They pop in his mouth. Ana Paula begins to cry. Her mother fixes her a cup of coffee. It has tapioca and sugar in it. She stops and drinks. We continue to pick at the fish body. The head is now a skull.