Stranded

After the wave, they were left
gasping against the sand, silver sides
fading to gunmetal. We ran
along the beach, throwing them back
in desperate bargains: For my spouse,
my sister or brother, my beloved child
one fish, a hundred fish?
No deals were made. The lost
remained lost, the fish dead.
Even a thousand fish would not have sufficed
though we kept them alive
with the salt of our own eyes. Even a million fish
could not bring back a single soul of all those stranded
on the other side of the water.

Now we turn away from the fish markets.
It's not that those glassy eyes
reproach us: fish are kinder than that.
It's the feel of salt slime sliding
under our fingertips. It's the smell
of dead sea life, like chains of seaweed
rank and dripping, binding us to memory
like Andromeda to her rock. We
are stranded forever
on the other side of that moment,
that wall of water.

--for Big Tent's prompt: Stuck.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside