“Father-killer and father-supplanter. Go in, and think on this.”

– Sophocles
Reportage:
A man, a father taken today by shark

white pointer, a thrash of white water

whilst snorkelling with his son. A struggle

then blood – in the eyes of one onlooker.
Commentary:
I’m not one for the sea the underneath –

 the three feet it can take! Circumspect

as the line gathering on shore, I collect

myself for the cameras as helicopters spy
above, there below a shadow the size

of a small boat. Should it be killed?

the reporter asks. Everyone else asks

after the boy. Should it be killed? 
he repeats. I utter something about loss

my own father – they say the camera adds

weight, I think I even use the word love –

the sea is in my ear now. But it’s the shark
I’m after, for, about. I almost say thankyou

as the camera pans out across the bay

as the boy appears in the furrows, white

as a sheet, intact, a fleet of craft behind
him, a fleet of craft before him: dorsal fin

at the epicentre. The crowd agape, shoal

that they are, on land. Floundering, a woman

wraps him in a towel, pulls the snorkel
from his lip. Assumes in her absence

the role of mother. The Emergency

cannot get near him, he recalls nothing.

The reporter dives again, his father
in his mouth, Should it be killed?

the boy’s eyes roll back, his jaw widens

several teeth are missing – the crowd

rears – though this is hardly unexpected
given his age. I swear I can see right

into his gut as the reporter rephrases

the question. There is nothing of his

father in him, no stock footage. There
are no easy answers, no grab, bite

gear, goggles, no fragment of wetsuit

to cling to. Just expedition – the roar of

the sea, the tumult encased in shell.