JELLYFISH

They arrive on warm waves, 
rising and falling with the swell, 
jostling among themselves 
accommodatingly, as if happy 
to be undulating thus on a whim, 
whichever current takes their fancy. 
They move by convulsions, 
as if suddenly repulsed by where they’ve been. 
Today the sea is full of them, 
thousands of floating umbels, 
medusas that bring the gulls swooping down. 
So many, as if some whaler 
had poured its viscera slipshod over the gunnels.
I could scoop a handful up 
but know they would slip 
through my fingers like water 
lacking the wherewithal. 

On sand they die such flaccid deaths, miscarried 
and left to rot when the tide 
retreats. Who would think they light 
the deepest of abysses, 
those aeons of dark ages? 
But here is one in the submersible’s glare, 
a pulse of life holding casual sway 
before cutting the umbilical cord 
and diving down 
into further darkness. 

Here’s another, 
lit like a chandelier. 
If the soul had filaments 
it would radiate like this 
and drift as ethereally, 
as vague as slops yet beautiful 
having left the body behind 
to grow dull, 
to be poured over by crabs and flies, 
turned inside out, 
like this one at my feet, 
something a drab might abort.