waterless ocean
it’s a curious feeling
this waterless ocean
sea + sand but no
bathing floating quenching
the water does all its usual things
but not to us
chock full of crocs with restless jaws
and box jellies that would unwittingly kill us
(the sign warns apply vinegar
+ immediately begin CPR –
the pain’s so excruciating
it’ll truly stop your heart)
we wander the shore
like Victorian ladies
who for now must keep
our lacy petticoats dry
hammerhead
strolling on the tame paved Esplanade
late on an empty Monday morning
we eye a pole flexing
with the tell-tale wiggle of fish
and the man in black
with an unkempt white beard
racing to grab the rod
we pause to see
whether he’ll land it
and sure enough
the line drags heavy on the sand
with the fish’s pull
but, no, it’s not –
this shape is all angles
sharp tail
and misshapen face
we all gasp in horror
then recognition
shark
not only that but
hammerhead
the eyes like afterthoughts
on metastasized lumps of face
the mouth when the man flips the creature over
a half-moon of needles
begging to prick
but the skin feels
surprisingly smooth calm reasonable
innocent
it’s a baby
a few weeks old
and he can’t heave it
back into the aqua of Trinity Bay
too soon for my suddenly squeamish taste
fluency
at the rental car counter
English gushes from the Kiwi clerk’s
young, witty, unpretentious lips
and within seconds
she grasps our situation
anticipates what we’ll say next
banters, poses questions
sizes up our promotional brochure needs
and sends us on our way
with bubbly brisk efficiency
while we blink mutely
realizing how impoverished
our speech has been for months
(our fault, not learning Tok Ples
as they say in PNG)
and we stand stunned by what can be said
when you share a mother tongue
