On Lake Victoria

Above rare fish with gaping mouths
we float, motor dead. The lake’s
warm as soup, noon light blinking off
your glasses as you pull the starter cord,
your goal to save the strange species
that live only here. Between us,
one water bottle, little fuel, no shade,
no paddle, miles from shore,
the villages with rough-sawn fishing boats,
young men asleep in huts, their flesh
melting from AIDS—this lake a highway
for fishermen, smugglers, viruses. You
in your frayed hat—a scientist who lacks
sample jars, aquarium, your limbs bony, too—
pretending the weekend funerals have nothing
to do with you. Shadow of a huge perch
slips beneath the boat. The motor coughs, starts.

First published by the Cider Press Review on June 30, 2017.