by Isabelle Newson
Eleven years ago, I learned life
Through the bull shark sculpture at Outback.
My brother, perturbed by those
Drowning in shirley temples,
Dyeing shirts in horseradish sauce,
Found the corner table below a table length, metal chondrichthyan
Just right.
Except middle-aged great whites in smokey eyes had their fingerprints
from the Bloomin onion’s oil stamped on highball glasses,
Appropriating shark smiles with their disposed elbows.
Semasiographs to keep the drinks coming.
My brother fought for our turn.
My parents yelled, as if
He’d find a titular plaque: “I sat at the Bull shark Table at Outback Steakhouse in Burbank”
Sooner than being seated.
It was two hours
Until a snout was
Prodding my forehead.
I thought about the bull shark asking the kitchen for a funnel,
For the hole made in me.
This is its own newness.
The table cleared.
I was told to stand. I was gaping.
Automated ordering voices.
Onto:
- Honey wheat bushman bread. Wooden slab. Whipped butter ball.
- Insipid ribeye
- Salamander fries.
All I wanted was for this cavity of mine
to meld mind into fins jerking above me,
They couldn’t. So arrested expression filled space.
Now I wait for people to reenter my life. Or strike me.
I stay away from steakhouses but
A Bull shark still exists
Drilling between my eyebrows,
So decades of devotion can appear as
Glasses and platters on a frantic table.
Each a sequestered year
Meant for me to take in.
****
Isabelle is from Los Angeles. Find her work on ExPat Press and World Hunger. Learn more about her on ig @ izzynews0n