by Julia Johnson

I know of seahorses caught
by bottom trawlers, some sold as trinkets
or for traditional Chinese medicine.
But some are here behind the glass, and swim
upright with a flutter of
their dorsal fin.
The wave of a reflected hand sends them aiming
up to the surface, a line of bubbles edging up.
They are delicate, s-shapes, like lace on the edge
of a gown. My hand is five times their size.
My mouth moves into the shape of an o
and I promise you, promise, one looks at me.