A pod of dolphins floods into the sound, chasing
squid. It's shallow where you spot them, the brack
close to sweet. They can't find the sea. A channel,
just four feet deep, could lead them out. Instead,
they shy away, keep turning, turning. You don't
know why they won't slip out, so near to what
they want. Seven long days. Still they circle forward,
back again, tails slow as sand. There are no fish
left. Eight. Nine. Bodies push up on the shore, grey
as January sky. All you do is watch. Another
weight's exhausted, thrown against the rocks: each
wave slapping skin like rubber, smack after smack.
Jennifer Jerome is a native New Yorker. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including The Pedestal Magazine, The Comstock Review, Pebble Lake Review, Ideomancer, ChiZine, and Astropoetica. For more about her writing, cast your 'net at www.jenniferjerome.com for a spell.