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.