In which I lurk

prurient, watching sex
between bat rays,
their paired wings stirring water.
Oblivious
to anything but each other,
they float joined
from the harbor’s sand bed to its surface
with a grace
Fonteyn and Baryshnikov would envy.
How can I not project
pure liquid pleasure on them—
their rising and rolling, gentle thrash,
the long, slow synchronous glide?
How can I not imagine tenderness
when they spread their wings like eagles
coasting on a thermal
and swirl their own currents?
Until done, or alerted
by our canoe—
its aggressive whisper in the water,
its manufactured buoyancy—
they startle
and shoot away like stars.

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Susan Cohen is the author of Throat Singing, A Different Wakeful Animal, and the forthcoming Democracy of Fire. Her recent poems appeared in 32 Poems, Northwest Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Review, Tar River Poetry, and won the Red Wheelbarrow Prize judged by Mark Doty and the 11th Annual Poetry Prize from Terrain.org judged by Arthur Sze. She has an MFA from Pacific University and lives in Berkeley, California.