“facing extinction” were right next to the price
If tourists could look past the lure of Exotic
and grouper were not so tasty, flaky-firm, and almost no bones
If Pesos didn’t revolve around Grouper, nor lives
of cooks and waiters with families of six in one room
If the fiction of plentiful didn’t slide with such ease from tongues
If anyone dared to question
If Grouper never made courtship sounds and didn’t
gather each year from hundreds of miles around
If undersea microphones were never designed to eavesdrop for
days on end to the world’s largest dance of the most intricate pairing
of spotted, slowly changing reds and browns circling, spiraling, swirling and coupling
If overfishing at sites of mating did not threaten
If overfishing meant breaking a law and the penalties, harsh
If beauty and wonder could put food on the table
If conscience could shelter each head
If, in our fragmented minds, opposing realities
never dangled, like these sentences
like the future of our oceans
If the lures of hope were never
