Slick shale beneath our fins,
we back into the ocean,
and sink, witnessing how,
through masks, seascapes, which from
above appear as splotches—
seaweed green, moon-bleached sand—
sharpen into quick focus
(as if an ophthalmologist
had clicked a lens in place),
and we beat above the brain
coral lined up like cannonballs
where camouflaged battalions
of smallmouth grunt scatter,
then spot an ancient hawksbill
sea turtle who waves flippers
toward air, a submarine
resurfacing. The colonies
of longspine urchins seem
close up like tiny bunkers
hunkered down, poised to strike.
We peer into crevices
under the ledges, see
a handful of sergeant majors
disappear into caves.
Floating into the safety
of the shore, we shed masks
and fins. Along the beach’s
south edge a sign with skull
and bones: No Trespassing:
Explosives Under Sand.
We weigh each step on shore.
These lines transform from pinpricks
to landmines, unpredictable,
triggered to explode.