More Than Meets the Eye: Sheffield & Human Perception through Poetry

By Jesse Julian | March 2026

Derek Sheffield, the 8th Poet Laureate of Washington State, challenges us to reconsider our perception of the non-human world in “Fish Like These.”

When I was younger, I experienced the slimy feeling of a manta ray gliding under my fingers in a shallow touch tank. I remember feeling a sense of intimate serenity as it swam under my hand, skin to skin; a feeling which fueled my fascination for marine life early on. It still follows me when I visit museums and aquariums today. Recently, I came across the Sea Creatures in Glass exhibit at the Harvard Museum of Natural History. It's a truly exquisite Blaschka collection, featuring detailed glass models of octopi, jellyfish, and more. Such artistry allowed me to come close to these creatures in ways I may not be able to in the ocean, yet the barrier of artificial creation blocks me from fully connecting with these sea animals. Glass marks the disconnect between humans and non-humans, whether it be the material for sculpting models, or the large tank shielding their world from ours and vice-versa.

Derek Sheffield examines this disconnect in his free verse poem, “Fish Like These,” from his book Not for Luck. He begins with a familiar scene: a crowd of aquarium visitors, pointing their fingers at various attractions within the tank, their inquisitive eyes following every movement in front of them. Sheffield excels at allowing his poem to flow via scene work. He hooks us with a recognizable experience, includes dialogue through italics, and introduces an important character: the aquarium guide in her blue vest. His description of her creates the tension that propels readers through the poem. She’s going to share this half-truth—so what’s the half-lie? But she’s smiling, so surely her secret must not be malintentious? We, as readers, are now one with the aquarium audience, curious to hear what she’ll say next. Her initial phrase, “More than meets the eye,” foreshadows what is to come.

While following a narrative structure, Sheffield embraces sound devices to offer a poetic effect. For instance, the assonance of “blending rays / and bending weeds” pairs these images together to create the unifying, symphonic effect of the sea behind the glass. Later, a mix of cacophony and sibilance (“scales / moving in coppery swishes”) mimic the scaly texture of the rockfish swimming through the water. The harsh “c-” sounds poke through the soft “s-” and “sh-”s. His technique transcends storytelling by creating sound through his written words.

In a notably ecopoetic fashion, he incorporates anatomical terminology within the blue-vested woman’s dialogue. Phrases such as “notched fin” and “ocular bone” nod to the scientific, which Sheffield often centers his creative work on. The entirety of the woman’s dialogue honors the expertise of aquarium staff, as her contributions guide us through understanding this fish’s disease-stricken background, causing him to lose his eye.

That directness in dialogue brings us to the culminating point of the poem: the double-meaning of glass. This symbol initially appears as tank glass, literally dividing humans and fishes. Sheffield emphasizes the human experience at the beginning, such as using air for words or pressing hands to the glass. Later, glass reappears as the fish’s glass eye, a marker of human intervention. The surgical addition serves as a means to assist the fish’s survival alongside his not-so-friendly fish friends. As the poem ends, the humans (which Sheffield reminds us the narrator is a part of by emphasizing “we”) come closer to discern which eye is which.

This scene literally shows the humans trying to figure out which fish eye is real and which eye is glass. Yet an alternate meaning arises when we reinvestigate the “eye” as not the fish’s, but the human’s “eye,” or perspective. Sheffield may be questioning humanity’s limited perception of nature, foreshadowed by how there’s “more than meets the eye.” “Outstretched hands” possibly symbolize curiosity and a thirst for knowledge, which humans feed into. Aquariums can deepen our knowledge of aquatic life. But our understanding will always be limited—perhaps signified by Sheffield as our “own blind skull”—and thus we can also come to terms with never fully understanding certain aspects of the non-human world. Glass enforces the divide between humans and non-humans, creating a physical barrier and knowledge barrier, despite our efforts to intervene and control that which is not “us.”

This, however, is not to suggest that we are not nature ourselves. That phrase, “more than meets the eye,” can also suggest yet another double-meaning: “more than meets the I.” This personal question challenges us to reconsider who we are, dismantling the “us versus them” attitude so prevalent in our understanding of humans and nature.

We may never know which fish eye is real or fake. We would never know that the fish even had a fake eye, had the aquarium guide not shared that. Yet Sheffield’s flowing narrative, poetic finesse, and intriguing double-meanings motivate us to look deeper into our perception of the non-human world. To ask those questions and follow our curiosities where they take us. We may be surprised to learn the truth behind the glass.

Interested in hearing more from Derek Sheffield himself? Boston College is excited to host him in the Connolly House on Thursday, March 26th at 5 p.m. for a reading and conversation! His visit is sponsored by the BC English Dept., Creative Writing Program, American Studies Program, Environmental Studies Program, and, of course, the Schiller Institute. Discover his work, such as his Not for Luck (which “Fish Like These” appears in) at his website.

Fish Like These

People crowding the darkened room
use their air for words
like Look! as they press their hands
to a topaz light. Glass dividesthe aquarium, but through
the perfectly flat chill—
Here!—they can almost feel
the gilled and tentacular, breathe
their symphony of blending rays
and bending weeds. More than meets the eye,
says a woman, smiling in her secret
and standing apart in a blue vest
to tell the half-truth before them.
See that rockfish with scarred sides
and a notched fin? Heads all turning
toward a spiny length of scales
moving in coppery swishes.
Disease took his eye, and the other fish
wouldn’t stop lunging for the empty socket.
At the tank’s end, he flutters into a turn.
Anymore, fish like these don’t grow on trees,
so we pulled him out, put him under,
and stitched a glass eye to his ocular bone.
With dull glimmers he approaches,
and they—I mean we—shuffle and squint,
snap our gum and purse our lips,
and cannot tell which eye
peers into its own blind skull
and which sees our outstretched hands.

Sources/References"

Back To Top