Is it Bad, Doc?

Photo by Anna Brones

Bubbling black mess pumping out,
pumping and jumping in a low droning hum,
moving swift as a storm,
but keeping time with the band,
sometimes slipping and settling down
and sometimes meeting up with the sand.

And yes, the black storm has since been quieted.
And yes, the sand between my toes has been
scraped and cleaned and preened by machines.
And yes, the shrimping season is set to open as scheduled,
but God only knows how it will go.

So we sit like family members in a hospital waiting room,
unsure just how serious our sea’s injuries are,
and if she’ll be able to dance for us like she once had.

But the hours keep ticking,
and no news has come.

Now the oil water echoes back the hum,
slapping against the yellow booms
like a never-ending call and response.

By Mary Samuel