Ryba – the Fishmonger’s Wife

fishmonger

Tired blue eyes streaked red, puffy cheeks a road map of dirty paths,
Bosom as thick at the fish she carries.
Skirts tattered, dried stiff with salted water, a faded apron askew at her girth.

Hoarse and raspy she hollers, “See me! See my fish!”

Basket dutifully balanced on her filthy frizzed hair,
Fins, scales, and other dead eyes hanging lazily over straw sewn sides.

Hoarse and raspy she hollers, “See me! See my fish!”

Stomping heavy cobbled boots with laces missing on uneven stones,
Swinging sagging arms in rhythm with her chant,

“See me! See my fish!”

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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