She flames like a window at evening
her hair the color of late sunset
so low and molten it drips into the water.
I shake myself hard
and follow the coldest current
until I see the mackerel
running for open water,
fat with the heat they’ve eaten,
gills streaming light like notched lanterns.
I pound my tail. I catch one
and another, another, another.
I tear into their bodies
until I cramp with belly fire
the color of her hair.