A. Aurelia

I have known each wrinkle of the ocean

bled salt water from my exumbrella. I have breathed with the haggard

lungs  and arthritic fingers of the coral. The staghorn that opens their ribs like gallows.

I was pulled from the tangled hair of Medusa– dropped into the sea– a silken shower cap. I learned to eat with a hallow tongue and think about how everything that dies sinks to the bottom to die again in the mouths of crustaceans.

They will thrash their legs to resist me– tread water– tread drowning thighs. Men will

call me a bloom. Call me dead skin and milk foam. I will wait. I will see with the

eyes of the water.

It’s                    water

all                     that

I                  formed

ever                          my

was.                            her

                stinging                           hands