The Oil Slick

 Linda N. Masi

Wading through the mangrove swamp

I saw the shoal of dead blue tilapia

Floating in the oil slick—

A testament of Big Oil’s foot 

In the Niger Delta swamps.

I reached out a hand to one fish

And touched 

Its oily, slimy, scaly skin,

Feeling the eternal stillness, hearing

The deafening cry of quietness—

No jostle, no ka-plum, 

Not even the yewk-yewk

Of the osprey

Soaring and scanning the waters

For fish.

Just quietness.

With their mouths half open,

Filled with filmy water, and

Their oil slick coated scales

Reflecting dark rainbows

To the setting sun,

They look at me with little

Beady black eyes.

And when I shut my eyes in sleep, or

Open them in vague dreams

I still see the same shoal of tilapia

Floating there in the oil slick,

Floating there in the quietness.