April 2023
Author's Note: One day, walking back from a long-distance swim down the Naples Beach, FL shoreline, I saw people scrambling out of the water. About ten feet offshore, an alligator periodically drifted up for air, then down again, swimming the shoreline I’d just finished. Later, I learned that very rarely, an alligator does indeed get disoriented in a freshwater canal, and wanders into the ocean, usually with fatal consequences. This persona poem (narrator as alligator) seemed a good choice for the theme: “the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
Alligator
I circle the same ground, suffocating in salt. Shadows dapple the swells that shift above my scales. Streaming air singes my yellow eyes when I drift up from ocean’s bottom, raise my head, blink, and gaze. A scramble of pink, white, and brown arms and legs, neon flowered rumps swirl and sway to shore. Whistles wail. I slog through the surf by instinct now, dazzled by the silver shades of shark that stalk in my wake. All I desired was open sky, open sun, a careen through water without boundary, one clear sail, a brief escape. Freshwater god, king of the canal dwellers – one wrong turn and even I topple to prey.
Originally published in SPLASH/Haunted Waters Press
and my book Winter at a Summer House (Kelsay, 2021)
and my book Winter at a Summer House (Kelsay, 2021)
©2023 Mary Beth Hines
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