Shark-like, but no shark. The skate’s dead or dying.
Wings cut away by a fillet knife
the cartilaginous body washed ashore
slender tail with tiny teethlike points,
dermal denticles.
O cousin of rays and sharks
O condrichthyes
O skeleton not of bone but cartilage.
Thing of jaws, paired fins, paired nostrils—
Who scooped you from the ocean floor
tore you from gravel saltwater’s bottom?
Your wings excised, eye closed
though my finger pokes at it and you gaze as if
confused as to what brought you to this beach.
I dined on skate wing once, in a Paris brasserie
the raie fanned out on the plate tasted crisp
but tender under the buttery crust.
Capers swam in the juices.
The meat tasted sweet, like Chesapeake blue crab.
Your gray form on the sand, spiky tail informs me:
I could never make a meal of skate again
remembering you, brave wingless thing.
