Healing: Under a Mangrove

Akin to the albatross on Española
I have flown far —
BWI, Quito, Baltra, Isla Isabela —
and emerged from an egg laid on bare ground
to lie under a mangrove,
watching frigate birds glide like silent pterosaurs,
the arcane arch of their wings distinct, defining.

Settled on warm sand, expanding memories of
ferries, water taxis, day boats, zodiacs,
emerge under a sky so blue it stings.
Stretched shadows cast on sand
run fast to a molten-glass turquoise sea,
bringing to mind blue-footed boobies, with their improbably
azure webbed feet. And the inevitable tacky T-shirts.

I recall biology colleagues piecing together
a creature from found bleached bones —
rib, femur, clavicle, vertebra —
as I have pieced myself together from stray snippets
to lie under a mangrove
watching frigate birds circle like silent pterosaurs
glimpsed through a lacework of branches.

It smells slightly of sea and slightly more of sea lion.
Ubiquitous, appropriating every flat surface —
walkway, bench, table, pier —
they sleep, emitting stentorious grunts when they budge.
As whim strikes, they waddle-crawl
down to the sea, and fall under the surface,
morphing into graceful, playful naiads.

Snorkeling in lucid teal bays, transformed
by water, in my element, life is everywhere —
Pacific Seahorse, Sargent Major, Marble Ray, Reef Shark.
I feel right in my skin, settled into my skeleton. Later
I will lie under a mangrove
watching frigate birds float like silent pterosaurs.
I came three thousand miles to borrow my self.

At Playa de los Perros courting iguanas sprawl
everywhere — black, deliberate, craggy, sneezing
salt in brief blasts. Males sport seductive seasonal color.
Here a bachelor, there an iguana patriarch
with six small basalt-colored wives.
I want a hand to hold. Scared, gamely descending the tenuous
ladder to the boat, I’m weaker than I wish; stronger than I know.

My mind skips, like a Sally Lightfoot crab —
rock to rock, thought to thought.
Galápagos. Forming over a hotspot, drifting east,
growing softer, more habitable, less jagged, more open.
I lie under a mangrove
watching frigate birds sail like silent pterosaurs.
How far have I come?

Bogged Down

I am ankle deep in a stinking bog
which squelches, rudely pulling at my foot.
Stranded alone in so much sucking sog
I marvel at the places I’ve been put.

If I try to struggle against this slime
I know I shall go under with no trace;
perhaps I should surrender hope this time,
and, slowly sinking, muster dying grace.

Or, maybe if I, graceless, lay me down,
immersed halfway in lukewarm reeking muck,
and float, suspended, manage not to drown,
I’ll find myself aground on firmer luck.

          If, rank and damp, I knock upon your door
          will you mind my dripping on the floor?

Deb Levine is a (mostly) formalist poet, scientist, and life coach. She was first published in Bay to Ocean 2023. She is Academic Chair for Physical Science at Anne Arundel Community College. Although she majored in Physics at UNC-Chapel Hill, she also completed most of the coursework for the Creative Writing major as a short fiction author. Dr. Levine lives in Stevensville, Maryland, on Kent Island with one cat, two parrots, eight chickens, and the neighbor’s rooster. She dreams in sonnet form.