As Seahorse Fry

Specific as fingerprints, mermaid's tears,
or zebra stripes, our survival 
in the wild cannot be left to chance—the risk
of apocalypse is too great & & &

Fingers pluck our father like fruit
from a vine. Full of us, his belly snares 
to our tempo. They whisk us off
where we'll be born in a box & & & 
 
We plume from him like chips
in a jackpot prize, as if to say, Look how
you have won. Let us shower
you in riches, rapid-fire avarice & & &

Our bodies shoot at him as notes
in a money booth. He can't hold us, comma
his tail around more than a few.
Alone, we're a ghost of a chance & & &

Hands check us into hotels they’ve raised
at the bottom of Sydney Harbour.
Jail bars bloom into artificial reef
—shaggy and ripe with frenetic life & & & 

Here, our futures assume any shape
we dream. The ampersands of our bodies 
flume our father's story off the page 
where we’ll pass as blades of seagrass & & &