And They Danced: A Poetry Collection

The Coast

In the world of man, I am a fish;
Fried up with a side of tartar sauce—
Eat me, it's a party on the water.
Toast over my corpse with cheap wine.

I don't like sand, I'm Anakin Skywalker,
Hazmat suit over my skin to keep me clean—
You stand by my side, naked before the eyes,
Covered in death and earth.

Worn coves shrink as ocean laps on stone,
The fisherman returns to shore with a sunburnt scalp–
An empty cooler, he secures the boat with a noose
While white girls tan to an uncomfortably dark brown.

Crunching up living sand dollars–potential giftshop commodities,
The surfer falls into waves that swallow him whole.
The life-guard can't swim, he can't even doggy paddle...
Consumed, head bowed in guilt and shame.

The fish can't hear, nor understand, the calls for help.
The fish doesn't turn to land for refuge, there's comfort in being unknowing.
The fish is a fish, and the fish is me.
A fish in the world of man, whether food or witness.