After my transmogrification

Mahalo ke akua I

am still deviously hard to catch–

slipping in and out of lanes

so fast the tiger shark despairs of a meal

while I’m off to dine on fish and lobster,

octopus, and the much slower eel.

I feel as athletic as back-when days

pinpointing Tyreek on a deep crossing route,

watching him lay out over the endzone.

But even as agile as I am it's hard

to elude the dragging trawl net’s death-cone,

me hurtling headlong into its mouth,

unlike the days of relative ease

when ends and backs would flush me

out of the pocket and into the open–

I wish for open unfettered seas.

So I safety time out on the beaches

resting under lazy sun,

clunky-slow on awkward flippers

galumphing around with a huddle of buddies,

more of whom disappear each day,

never returning from hunting forays,

caught, or killed, or sickened with the plastics

swirling here in the island currents

turning us all into collection sacks.

But back in the ocean how I do come alive!

Watch my moves, my leap-out and touch-down!

Ilio-holo-i-ka-uaua,

I am the dog that runs through rough water,

launching off waves, dropping to depths,

skimming the shallows. Now though

my world here is growing more hostile,

slowly, like haze glazing over Kansas City.

There’s dread in these waters, like cephalopod ink,

an expanding cloud of a dark fairy tale

with a witch and a brew and the monks in the dungeon,

only this time I fear it’s all coming true.