Let’s not break them. I filled one with saltwater and jellyfish
even though, truly, there is nothing sadder than sea-less sea creatures
plopped over a withdrawn tide like dried-out sclera. Last week
I ordered a package of moon jellies online, delivery guaranteed.
They arrived in a bubble-wrapped sac, discombobulated, yet alive. Then,
I poured a jug of ocean into a birthday balloon and dropped the lot,
one by one, down its gullet, sealing them in with glue and scraps
of newspaper. On second thought … shall I take glory in the smashing?
What twisted heroism overcomes me as I club the papier-mâché shape
with driftwood. High fives! Jellyfish freed! Catch—
and release. My raincoat is thick as whale hide, a-drip in autumnal
yellow. Weather on my back, the pummel of hard-falling fingers,
accusatory, asking the human I have become to admit, confess,
regret. Eighteen jellyfish at my feet, eye-balling around for water.
They used to glow at depth. Incandescent mauve, a pulsating metropolis
of cells, a bloom, a swarm, a smack of boneless blue. Genus: Aurelia,
species: aurita. Maleea, does one of your eyes remember swimming
among these fish billions of years ago? Sometimes, half-awake at 3am
I recall the current, the soft foam of undersea travel. And my other eye,
looker’s right, terrifying, isn’t it? How it glitches, narrows, hawks-down
to hurt from above. Cupped between rocks, the moony puddles drain
amidst popped piñata, balloon bits, and flecks of newsprint carrying
word of our latest disaster. By way of apology I scoop the jellyfish
into a bucket and turn them back to water. They multiply into gloppy
thickets, vacuum up protozoa and plankton, clump the sea
with milky way dazzle. Who will dive
headfirst into their great gelatinous swirl? Holler me in
if I am still on shore, blind-folded and aimlessly waving this stick.
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
areudirty
origamiaround
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