Lionfish
All day we floated face down in the Red Sea
watching small fish flutter like blossoms blown
by currents of the reef. Among the mounded domes
and fans of living coral, purple yellow fragments
whirled. We drifted aimlessly above them, breathing
through tubes to the rhythm of anemones’ mouths.
Late in the afternoon, when our salt-encrusted backs
had stiffened in the sun and our fingertips ached
from dehydration, the big fish sidled into view -
huge and solitary, striped in black and grey,
spiny wings and headdress looking sharp as knives.
His bloated lips puckered, kissing air, and mottled eyes
rolled independent revolutions in their coiled sockets.
He slithered and sashayed among the jewel-like petals
who scattered at his awesome approach.
As he passed under me I stretched an arm
to touch but what the mask had made to seem
so near was still far out of reach. I followed him.
Every time I caught him up, and my shadow
started to engulf him, he skittered forward
almost out of sight. I swam faster, then hovered
motionless above him, longing to run
a finger up his zebra stripes or grab his tail.
The air began to cool and the sky to redden before
I heard you calling. How far I’d come away from shore
and the protected reef. You seemed a tiny, frantic insect
waving your antennae arms. It was an act of will
to turn away from my pursuit and cross the scarlet
sea to where you stood on shore and beckoned.
Later in the shop when we returned the snorkels
and the masks, you pointed out the poster of the fish -
a life-size portrait under which, as if he were a fugitive
wanted by the FBI, his aliases and a warning in bold print:
“Stonefish Lionfish Scorpionfish - Use Caution!
Contact with his spines is dangerous, painful
and can lead to paralysis and sometimes death.”
A narrow escape, you said, pulling me close.
Yet now, in the dry nights of the city,
I dream of him and reach out still to touch.
Author: Judith Liebmann
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