Stingray City | Kate Horowitz

water2

Some time after we split up the china,
after I moved away, I found
two honeymoon photos still stuck together.
The glossy paper ripped as I pried
the pictures apart, and there we were—
well, there you were in one, and me
in the other. We never thought
to hand our camera to a stranger.

I took that picture of you
in the cove they call Stingray City,
where a slowing boat’s propeller
calls a swarm of the silky slate creatures.
You’re forever frozen in swim trunks, your hands
flat on the wolf-sized ray, your lips
poised to plant a kiss
on her slick, thrashing wings.

The Caribbean’s milky green in the photo
of me. I’m sun-glassed,
bikini-clad, up to my white waist
in water. Laughing because
why wouldn’t I be, twisted as I am
away from the horizon, away
from the approaching hurricane,
the clouds black as Stingray City.

Kate Horowitz is a science writer and poet based in Washington, D.C. Her work celebrates life’s marvels and oddities, and has appeared in the Washington Post, Pitbull, Compass, and Poetica magazines, and in the book Men and Angels: The Art of James C. Christensen (Greenwich Workshop Press, 2008). 

One comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s