We hustled in the cold wind,
the sun too blinding to let us look
and nothing to see but seagulls
and some stout geese settled
in the icy bay. Unsteady
on the shifting sands and shells
we thundered on, till we saw
a silver fish flop and flop,
trapped, as a gull pecked his head.
You scooped the distraught fish up
and threw: he flew far out and
dropped and seemed to fly again,
he swam so fast, his wake
a swift snake of water sliding.
What delight to see him go!
He’ll die soon, you said. The gull
pecked out the mackerel’s eye.
Maybe to distract ourselves,
we reminisced. We used to
eat them off the bone, you said.
I like them canned, I answered,
then thought of mackerel clouds—
puffy scales coalescing,
covering the sun—and now
this half-blind fish, burdened
with our gift of time, finning
his way through the green-black cold.
Ruth Hoberman has spent the last couple of years living in New Haven, Connecticut to be near her daughter and her daughter's family. Having grown up in New York City, she loves the coastal beaches that border Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. Her poems and essays have been published in various journals, including Calyx, Rhino, Michigan Quarterly Review, and Ploughshares (forthcoming).
Featured image of Silver Sands State Park courtesy Derek Wright.
