Off Sandy Hook, drifting the Mud Hole, shaking
the yellow chum bag into glittery flutter,
circle hooks hang live bunker under pink balloons
left over from my daughter’s tenth birthday.
We spot dolphins and whales, eat cookies,
chat about her friends and these little gray birds,
storm petrels, fairy-winged and wave-dancing
on golden webbed feet, hovering and picking
happily over the slick. They are all the sweetness
my girl imagines about the sea
this calm sunny morning before the tide changes.
Blood scent, fin swirl, the clicker sounding,
balloon skimming away. Ready? I ask her.
A sky-blue mako runs and jumps. We hold the rod
and take turns reeling. Pointed head
and gnarly teeth finally thrashing beside the boat.
Cleaning the shark, slicing open the soupy gut,
we find pale fish, a lost hook, torn balloons,
and clumps of mushy feathers.
