Plus Tax

Our unplanned ferry ride
from Brisbane to Moreton
was long and nauseous.

A television was mounted
above the bolted table packed
with brochures and biscuits,

so I picked up the one about
Tangalooma's wild dolphins.
A woman prattled on and on

about the Princess and her baby,
her accent so clean it sounded British
despite all the static. The pamphlet

began: Moreton is the third largest
sand island in the world and
a population of bottlenose dolphins visits

when the lights along the dock come on,
having been conditioned to respond
to the stimulus which means food

will arrive in the hands of tourists
who washed their skin in a chemical solution
to prevent the spread of diseases.

I am assured it's humane,
better than those places in Mexico
where I swam with a matriarch

who lost her calf the year before,
in a storm she didn't know to avoid because
most of her fish came from warm, brown hands.

Less than ten percent
of these dolphins' daily intake
comes from the nightly feedings,

but I am greeted with a story
about a mother named Tinkerbell,
who lost her calf when a storm hit

and she didn't leave her guaranteed
meals.  At least the whalers who used
those docks were honest:

No blonde-haired woman
telling me to hold my hand down
and smile for the picture,

which cost thirty dollars
in the gift shop,

money for air conditioning and nets
in case one isn't pretty
enough for

us.