didn’t appear, or when it did, the words of warning

“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

 

 

for my friend Cristina Limonta, Underwater Videographer