What natural force compels the fish
to fertilize the female's eggs,
threaded in glossy globules, bright
below the tide-pool's frothy edge?
No love is in their sexless eyes.
They lack the charms of limb and voice.
Only the run of soundless scales
can justify a transient choice.
It can't be passion; probably
they find in mating no delight -
but strange respect as pairs glide past,
equal with equal edged in light.
If you have any comments on this poem, Gail White would be pleased
to hear from you.