Susan Gubernat Estero Celtic swirls of tiger sharks feed         beneath the bridge over the estuary, a bridge the salt air has worn as silver         as their sleek flesh nudging the sand banks, stirring up a cloudy potion that clears         when they swim toward the wider ocean mouth, away from us. There, plump starfish splay         like mottled hands suctioned onto slick rocks in pools, and sea anemones         cling to coral, better to sting their prey as their wild pink hair sways with the tides.         It is delicious here, like slurping a cold oyster in its shell. Happy shipwreck! I’ve yet         to see a pelican prick her breast and nurse chicks on her blood, but I believe the myths:         back fins split in two, we walk onto shore, shedding scales like skate cases, mermaid purses.         Or, the wombs emptied, we pour out, then leave behind a desert wash where,         for so brief a time, primrose, lily, poppy, senna, and the wild blue lupine thrive.

---