Barbuni

Barbuni

The sun scintillating from his skin
resembles the opaque hues of Egypt’s golden sands.
“Almost there, need to catch one more,” he mutters,
casting the fishing pole into the sparkling blue waters.
The rod handle catches the glint of his reflection.

It isn’t long before he feels a nibble—
and then, a strong tug.
He grapples with the decrepit wooden rod
and reels in quickly,
knowing his scheme may fail within seconds.

Sweat trickles down from the curling locks at his temple
to his pronounced collarbones.
He wrestles, too, with the thought
of the mullet and bait
sinking toward the barren sea floor.

Reeling in as rapidly as he can,
his night-sky eyes adamant,
his face tightening—at last, and alas!
The barbuni floats mid-air, latched on defiantly.

He unhooks the red-scaled goatfish,
grabbing it in one hand.
The rod, set against the metal enclosure,
tilts backward and bumps into his lower limb.

The mullet’s wide eyes flash, then vanish,
the ragworm still clenched between its lips,
wriggling back into the depths of Abukir.

It’s clear he and the mullet had one thing in common:
trying to get their first meal of the day.

The sun paints the Mediterranean sky
in orange and yellow.
He casts again.

Copyright © 2026 Zena Mohamed