As a kid I walked backwards
from the glass until a thumb
could cover every shark in Camden.
I held my breath and counted them
while shoals shone like flocks of scissors
overhead. The world’s pockets
could be probed with two fingers:
tip jars, strangers’ bags, pools
where urchins velcroed my arm
and dragged me out by the wrist.
Each summer I pushed my face close,
the ocean tapping me.

In the tunnel I read
about coral in crisis as sturgeons
sped by like bullet trains,
too fast for the hand trick.
Once I tried following them
but fell asleep by the deep sea
exhibit, watching jellyfish rise
like cut parachutes in their tubes.
When I woke up that night, I had nothing
but the rays, who blinked unhelpfully,
and a map marked with a red star
telling me what I already knew.