In the ocean, a caged pen
of juvenile stingrays,
I submerged,
told myself to breathe.
Flooded with panic—
I jerked skyward.
By the fourth attempt
I trusted that apparatus,
tooth-clenched, strapped on.
Through murk and plastic—
no pirate gold
only sting rays—
gray wings undulating,
fish flashing silver.
In the dolphin pool,
I treaded water,
waiting for contact.
A pair.
One foot on each dorsal fin—
I was carried forward,
whitecaps breaking behind me.
A flailing victory,
then collapse.
In the photograph
you can see—
though instructed
to hook my hands to the vest,
I am scratching one dolphin’s chest
like a pet.
The camera malfunctioned—
four minutes
it nuzzled my cheek,
that fixed, beaked smile.
As if it liked me.
I kissed it—
small filial kisses—
until my daughter yelled
Get a room, Mom.
I bought a cane reed bracelet,
hand-braided onto my wrist
by a man in the park.
He was there,
less to sell
than to speak—
prophecies in patois.
He saw past my piker skin,
past present tense,
as if I belonged
to something older.
Yoruba perhaps. Ife.
A resistor.
He touched my shoulder—
you know this.
I almost believed him.
It felt it too seductive.
I paid for the bracelet
and moved on.
