On the sandy lip of Tiahura lagoon,
the plump fingers of a Tahitian woman
offer me the oily belly of a big-eyed fish.
Twenty feet away,
a frigate with a throat the
color of a lychee
balances in the breeze.
I imagine that my grandfather is there
his knees covered by soft foam.
he throws his net,
pulls in a small bounty and
tosses the fish onto the sand
their mouths gasp for life.
Grandfather throws again,
the sun catches his net
for a second, it reappears
chops the ocean
into blue diamonds.
He turns towards me, smiles,
beckons, his large hand
waves me over.
It is your turn. Come.
This is how I see him.
Again and again, forever.
The blood of this fish
stains my fingers.
The tourguide tries to souvenir
the moment in a photo, but
chides me when I don’t smile.
I tell him:
I am angry at my wife’s breast cancer
for taking her away from life.
I wish she could see this,
the crimson flesh of this fish,
the tranquility of this lagoon,
the glide of huge black rays.
I throw the fish to the frigate,
watch, as it is devoured
scale by scale.
This poem originally appeared as one section of a longer poem, “Mr. Étienne Heifara,” published in Adelaide Independent Quarterly Literary Magazine Year II, Number 5, December 2016.