Surf Lesson
Truro
I learn to surf: a
trying exercise
in sitting, frigid, on a
wobbling board
while grey and choppy
ocean laps my thighs.
Caught between my
surfboard and a swell,
My nose is crushed (it
tingles as it bleeds.)
Rashes develop.
I float far from my
conception of the sport:
Olympians riding
turquoise waves as if
summoned, waves and riders both, as steady
as the rain now falling from
the Cape’s mud sky.
With their bright focus.
With their Australian
accents.
My hands assume the hues
of the undead.
Where are my dolphin
friends?
Where is my fucking
shrimp cocktail?
Below in darkness
something tastes my blood.
Black eyes roll back. It is an ancient urge
which guides the bull
shark slowly toward the light.
