Somewhere in the depths of the Atlantic a flat-bodied flounder
lies like a patient sage till the light breaks through the krill,
illuminates crustaceous sunspots as grains of sand
asleep on the ocean floor stir into consonants and vowels,
a cacophony of sound erupting through oil blue dark so suddenly
there is no time to think a glimpse of dorsal fin, eyes eyeing sideways
ever occurred, there is only proof in the slow resettling and a shift
in the sense of cartography, the way the lights of Toronto glint
past lake Ontario when the sky is clean enough to reveal the subtext
of what is not so simple, that what is covered up in layer upon layer
are the secrets we bury on purpose only to one day be better revealed –
the CN tower will sparkle; the four moons of Jupiter will parade themselves
upon Galileo’s telescope, the earth will continue its lackadaisical curve
around the sun and the sleepy fish will be astonished at each bright light.
Alicia Hoffman lives, writes and teaches in Rochester, New York. Recently, her poems can be found at Pirene's Fountain, Bolts of Silk, Poets/Artists, Boston Literary Magazine, Writer's Bloc, Umbrellas and elsewhere.