Zlatan

A beach in North Florida,
the sun is shining
not a cloud in the sky.
Well maybe there are one or two clouds
this is a memory
and memories are famously inexact.
It’s hot and humid
a scrotum-sagging Florida humidity.
Out on the calm ocean
children are floating
on inflatable ducks, dragons, swans.

I’m on a work assignment
and this is a day off.
Beside me my colleague, Zlatan,
is struggling into his swimming trucks
under the cover of a small white towel.
Zlatan is from a communist bloc country.
He escaped to the West
by accelerating in his car through a border crossing;
he tells me he can still see the guards
in his rear view mirror
reaching for their guns.

There were pelicans down by the shore
or were there?

Suddenly the calm is broken
by a commotion out on the wooden jetty
people are pointing at three grey fins
moving through the water.
Someone shouts: Sharks!

The ocean empties
children, parents, inflatables splash frantically
towards the safety of the water’s edge.

Meanwhile
Zlatan has finally got his trunks on
he gets up, walks towards the water
past the hysterical families and the inflatables;
he has a low centre of gravity
his back is covered with black fuzz,
he’s a soccer player
one of those midfielders
who can always find space and time.

Zlatan, I yell,
there are sharks out there!
He looks back over his shoulder,
smiles, and shouts, Fuck the sharks!;
then wades out until the water is waist high,
dives in and heads off into the ocean
his arms arcing in a steady crawl.

In no time at all
he is out of sight.

This poem originally appeared in Cyphers Magazine Issue 93.

Taking part in Open LInk over at Open Link Night #403 with Live Edition | dVerse