Elizabeth Bradfield

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 & tossed back

as the crew was steaming home,

marsh sucking tide into

its big lungs, shucking &

tossing all but the marketable muscle—

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.

skull, for example, or the thin,

ridged shell of a paper nautilus—make

a cage of yourself, curl fingers stiff

around a space you could close

to a fist. And at first it’s easy. But you fear

your scattered mind: Careful care

ful careful careful each footfall. You worry

about the little gap where your

smallest finger touches

your healthline. The short walk home

stretches long. Try a few positions

of the arm—ahead, elbow dug

into waist, palm cupped up; ulna tight

across diaphragm or ovary; radius

tucked below the hip’s wing. It’s not

easy, though nothing is heavy. Your hand

sweats and cramps and one part of you longs

to just let it go. But you picked it up. You’ve

carried it this far, this thing. And now

it must be held until you find a safe place

—desk, car, sill by the door—

to put it down.