swim up alongside
a great white
SUV
with a vanity plate that reads,
♥2CULAF
it takes me a minute
but
two streets
away
I’m
smiling
I’m
ebullient
I’m
hand-signaling
a left
onto
Cornelia
picked
only
for its name
nice
houses. parked
sharks. shadows
in my wake.
tree branches
smiling
over me.
the inverted blue
taken
from the ocean,
thrown
into the trees, the
spaces between
rather.
this one doesn’t
bite
but comes
close enough
to smell
its fangs;
a friendly pat on the rear
and
I’m
bypassing it
standing
on my pedals
for a boost
to fly
to swim; going
to the Long Beach Aquarium —
(a pastel memory) —
and sitting
poolside petting
the
softest wettest
velvety back
of the stingray
a frisbee
of a creature, issuing
past
under
along
my little
under-
water
hand
Waveland
Grace Byron Sheridan
Irving Park;
the cemetery;
the Aquarium;
those little grey
sharks
who swam
past
me
and my brother Marlon
(his name is a fish),
and their backs
were like
sandpaper,
and the water
was cool
and today
it is warm
almost
hot.
the trees
billow
in the upside-down ocean.
I pet a shark’s paint job.
I hold my breath.
Brooks Harris is a rising senior at DePaul University, studying creative writing. He focuses on poetry and short fiction, and has had his work featured in 14 East Magazine, DAC’s First Issue Zine “New Normal,” and soon in Crook & Folly. He likes riding his bike along the lakefront trail, wearing a helmet.