Beneath the Surface
In a fish cleaning station near the equator,

off the coast of Africa, summer stretches

over the barracudas, their long mirrored-chrome

bodies heaped like eel fillets, slung jaws gaping,

red canine teeth exposed as if they still crave

meat and muscle. Even dead, they are a melancholy fish,

never satisfied, always wanting to bite off

more than they can chew, their curious white eyes

in a lidless showdown with an existence

beyond the visible. Maybe they are the spawn

of the serpent who prowled and tempted Eve,
cast into the saltwater. They are terrifying and defiant,

their pointed heads hammering towards the light,

waiting for the first sign of weakness. The fishermen

catch them hovering just beneath the surface.

What is it like to die with your eyes wide open

in the bright sun?