Goldfish Theory

Last Sunday I met a Marine,

a sailor lost at sea. “This ocean,

he said, “blue on  blue on blue,

murky white froth, swallows the

world like a hungry goldfish,

gives birth to dying sea-salted

fishermen. It means nothing.”

The gulls squalled overhead,

dividing the horizon. I squinted at

the glowing tangerine between us,

deceptive in its size. I reached a

hand to cradle it in my palms, but

it dripped through, juice bathing

my fingers in golden rivulets.

Leaning forward, bamboo raft

tilting, I broke the surface tension

with my sticky hands, the seawater

cupped as if it knew my name.

It almost seemed I heard the waves

whimper, “Lizzie, Lizzie,” although

I never liked that nickname.

“My grandmother gave it to me,”

I told the Marine, fingering the Black

Hills ring at home on my smallest digit.

He enveloped my soft hand in his,

lifted it to his lips. A stream of warm

breath broke over my skin. “That’s not

to say it means something,” he said.

A storm blazed in his iron-clad eyes,

the temperature sank. The wind,

harsh salt and pepper, whipped

our cheeks to leave a carmine stain.

We wandered betwixt the swells

and the storms, rain rocking our

tiny raft as if to prove a point.

Our bamboo sprang a leak, and we

capsized into the blue-grey veil. Ever

a weak swimmer, I went underneath.

My Marine held me, kicking, until my

nail scraped an etching into glass.

I grasped the rim of a Mason jar and

heaved myself onto Black Hills sand.

Turning to offer him a hand, my eyes

met empty space. I pressed my face,

tear-bathed, into the mirror, but there

met me only blue on blue on blue,

swallowing itself like a hungry goldfish.

My lids shuttered, shattered. Once, I knew

a Marine. This is not to say it means nothing.

(Heavily revised version of a poem previously posted. Subject to further revision and reposting.)