The sturgeon at the aquarium

Samantha Schnell

glides along the edge of the shallow petting tank.

His upturned nose cuts a path toward the little

palms that dot the water’s surface like fleshy stars.

The handler tells the children to run two fingers

gently down the sturgeon’s back. I reach in, too.

His skin is rough and surprisingly unslimy, tapering

into a row of bony scutes that erupt down his spine

like a miniature mountain range. Across the room,

the river otters are showing off. They dart in and out

of the water, twisting their rubbery bodies into loops

and then hopping ashore to scrabble over the wet logs.

It would be fun to be an otter, but for some reason

I imagine myself trading places with the sturgeon.

I’ll scan the sandy bottom for mollusks with my

whiskers while he goes to work and does my dishes.

The door to the gray parking lot swings open, but I stay

here, drifting under the dappled canopy of fingers,

not knowing the difference between water and sky.

SAMANTHA SCHNELL is a writer and teacher living in New York City. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Witness Magazine, Sonora Review, Midway Journal, Bicoastal Review, Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.