Lana Hechtman Ayers

Red Riding Hood Visits an Aquarium

You are too much my lover

You would put yourself

Between me and song.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Wolf Eel is a sad looking creature,

the head of a bald eagle, the body of

a blue-spotted snake.  If Wolf were here

he'd quote those lines from Blake—

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artist's Jealousy.

There doesn't seem reason to envy here.

This sea serpent wolf is said to mate

for life but except for a roach-like Chiton,

he's on his own in this dark tank.

His tiny ink-drop eyes so black

they seem to swallow all the light,

reflect nothing back, and if not

for a nervous-seeming quiver

of his jaw, I would think

him not a living thing at all.

One can see as he breathes

a mouthful of baleful teeth.

In this fake aquarium reef

his wildness has been thieved.

I watch a diver feed him, stroke

the head of this lonely beast.

I wonder if the Wolf still thinks of me,

or if he's already forgotten about his Red,

moved on to bed his new artist's model.

Would our union have been able to last?

Behind the glass of the next tank,

a China Rockfish hangs on the wall

like a bright blue-handled iron

awaiting the housewife's next need.

The placard reads, "These solitary fish

never venture more than thirty feet

from where they are born."

I guess I used to be a Rockfish

in my former life.  Or maybe a Red Octopus,

who despite his Devilfish nickname is truly shy

and would rather hide by folding

up into the tightest spaces than meet your eyes.

Or is it merely that they treasure solitude,

just like I have come to take such pleasure

in my own?  And perhaps Octopi are fond of

ruminating about what artistic new shapes

they'll soon sculpt themselves into.

The Moon Jellyfish are artists too, ballerinas

of the sea, but delicate and prone to injury.

I could watch them for hours,

narrowing and expanding, billowing their

frilly, iridescent, transparent selves.

Should I have been more clear with

the Wolf about my fear of losing

not only him, but my newfound sense of self?

I could have it made it understood how much

I cared for him but didn't think it right

to rush into another committed life.

I must trust my intuition more, not second guess.

These poor floor-dwelling Starry Flounders

spent so much time on the bottom looking up

their eyes have migrated to one side of their heads.

They remind me of the Picasso-esque painting,

"Shaving Man," Wolf and I saw, who so resembled

my husband Hunter.  Flounder surely must be

the egotists of the ocean or else just very lazy. 

And what about those Sunflower Stars

with hazy vision who see light

and dark but can't distinguish imagery?

Life to them must be a constant abstract

painting—white over black.  Oh, that Wolf,

I wouldn't take a moment of us back.

He made me conscious of the fact that

I contain multitudes, more fathoms than the sea.

Lana Hechtman Ayers lives in the Pacific Northwest where she works as a manuscript consultant and writing workshop facilitator.  She is also the poetry editor of Crab Creek Review and runs Concrete Wolf Poetry Chapbook Press.  She is author of two full-length collections of poetry, Dance From Inside My Bones (Snake Nation Press, 2007) and Chicken Farmer I Still Love You (D-N Publishing, 2007), and a chapbook, Love is a Weed (Finishing Line Press, 2006).  She enjoys sushi, gray days, and Miles Davis.