My wife could not care less, but I insisted
that no daughter of mine was to be wedded
without there being served at the reception
our precious shark fin soup of celebration.
I said, “Remember, dear, when you and I-”
...she rolled her eyes.
My daughter did the same, adding
“Dad, it doesn’t taste like anything.
Plus they hack the fins off while they’re
still alive. Poor beasts.”
(Poor beasts? With all those teeth?)
But I left the office early anyway
and hit the streets of Chinatown, praying
I’d find some not too pricey specimen,
a gray wedge of dried-up cartilage chopped
from a mako or porbeagle shark.
Once they were common sights in any shop
in the district, dangling in the windows
wrapped in plastic. Now there was not
a single fin to be had. The predators had been
declared endangered, their purchase
made illegal. I was incensed.
How could they prohibit our traditions?
Our memories condemned, our past deemed sinful.
Would they deny Marcel his madeleine?
Reproach the kosher Jew for noshing brisket?
I wept with rage. My tongue still felt
the texture, could taste the broth
being spooned into my mouth by my young bride.
I suppose I shall resort to the black market.
I can’t allow my child to be denied.
She will be wed. And I will have my shark.
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