S.C. Flynn

Stingrays are the underwater shadows

of the distant beaches of my childhood:

gliding abysses with dead eyes and clown mouths

below the clear surface and slow gleaming days,

passing back and forth all summer long

and constantly prowling the sand of my dreams.

Species are currents in an ocean of genes –

adapting, evolving, disappearing –

and the interlocking puzzle of my self

has changed since then in ways I cannot see,

but the black shapes of the stingrays still coast

in unchanging, restless eternity.