Last time I gripped
a badminton racquet: Puerto Rico.
Wide white sand bracketed
by palm trees, Atlantic Ocean.

Small waves rose a half mile
from shore
broke in rhythmic ripples, 
spilled warm water
onto heated afternoon sand.

Tardy for family dinner
and we didn’t care,
protected by vaulted status
of newly betrothed.

There was no badminton.
We snorkeled in a crescent cove,
searching for the barracuda

Bob glimpsed the day before,
sharp needle-file nose
sliced through clear water.

He likes to hang out in that reef,
Bob said,
dove under.

I shook my head like a dog
freeing water from her ears.

Grinned with anticipation.

The man I’m about to marry
believes he thinks like a barracuda.

– Christy Wise