Thrash splash at the edge
of vision. Fish at the marsh
edge on an ebb tide. I walked
over. Took a photo. A photo. A
photo. In air, gold-eyed
and rust speckled. How long
that moment for the fish,
for me. Then I put my hands
just behind the gills, breathed
into right grip, and moved
so water could pass over frill.
I called up to ask if anyone
would like to see? To see? They
shook their heads, silent, silhouetted
against sky. They knew better
than me. And so I let it—
silver hake—go. I thought
I’d seen it so clearly, slick, vivid
muscle in my hands, bronze
body in bronze sand. But,
home, I flipped through, pinched
and zoomed, held and beheld
again, which is when
I saw the perfect circle pressed
into flank which had to be made
by one ring of a scalloper’s mesh bag.
Which is why—bycaught & unwanted,
disallowed & so tossed back
as the crew steamed home, shucking
& tossing all but the marketable
muscle, marsh sucking tide into
its big lungs—we came upon this fish
who shares a blush
with the scallop’s shell. Who
swims over their beds. Who wasn’t
intended to be caught up in all this
but was.
This poem first appeared in About Place Journal.
—
Elizabeth Bradfield’s seven books include Interpretive Work, which won the Audre Lorde Prize in Lesbian Poetry, Toward Antarctica, and Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry, winner of a 2024 Pacific Northwest Book Award. Editor-in-chief of Broadsided, Liz teaches at Brandeis University and works as a naturalist and field assistant.
