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A vacation was, he said, the next logical step —
brochures boasting 90-pound halibut,
snapper, sole, something called chocolate chip
fish that must have been named by a latent optimist
or handicapped god, a challenged oculus.
What followed was defined by what he reeled in
from the surf: skates with scalpel tails; innumerable
undersized flounder; two agave-spined grouper
with eyes like dried glue, bodies hermaphroditic
and small. But it was the unriled shark
that made you a verified mystic — flash
of tail, skin iridescent. He fixed it for supper.
You tasted urine, grit, a hole dug in the Mojave.
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