The Octopus
My cousin, the zookeeper, took me behind the rows
of tanks in the ocean exhibit, their blue light
sinew on the walls. I peered at orange blooms
looking for the octopus, my heart
clanging as I dangled a crab in the water.
Then she stirred, spreading her quilted skin
from the pumice and along the gravel. A skin
of algae broke as I, like a rower
dipping an oar, circled my arm in the water.
Just drop it my cousin hissed. I was light-headed
from the cold but wanted with all my heart
to see her reach for me and feel her mouth bloom.
Her limbs unfurled, petals on a stop-action bloom,
and searched around me. I shivered at her skin
floating like the shroud of blood around the heart.
It rippled just above her muscle. There twin rows
of suckers glowed in the murk like paper lights
strung along a boat and reflected on the water.
I almost yanked my arm out of the water
when I felt the teeth of those hard blooms
as she searched my hand. At first strangely light
then fierce kisses pulling at my skin,
leaving strings of pearl bruises, helixed rows,
as she wound and unwound quick as my heartbeat.
I felt along her bulk. Was that the thud of her heart?
But my cousin pulled me out of the water
fearing she would release her beak’s jagged row
to puncture the shell and send my blood blooming
like an ink cloud occluding her veined skin.
He shook me in the exhibit hall’s dim light.
She slunk back to her rock and I to the dusty light
of the library to read about the three-hearted
octopus with its alien limbs. Their skin
can’t tell them where they are, arms whip water
neurons gather other data and her bloom-shaped
brain collects these messages, sorts them in rows
her skin alive to minute changes, while we rely on light
sighting along rows. No wonder we have clumsy hearts;
we never feel such nuance, nerves orbiting, blooming.
My cousin, the zookeeper, took me behind the rows
of tanks in the ocean exhibit, their blue light
sinew on the walls. I peered at orange blooms
looking for the octopus, my heart
clanging as I dangled a crab in the water.
Then she stirred, spreading her quilted skin
from the pumice and along the gravel. A skin
of algae broke as I, like a rower
dipping an oar, circled my arm in the water.
Just drop it my cousin hissed. I was light-headed
from the cold but wanted with all my heart
to see her reach for me and feel her mouth bloom.
Her limbs unfurled, petals on a stop-action bloom,
and searched around me. I shivered at her skin
floating like the shroud of blood around the heart.
It rippled just above her muscle. There twin rows
of suckers glowed in the murk like paper lights
strung along a boat and reflected on the water.
I almost yanked my arm out of the water
when I felt the teeth of those hard blooms
as she searched my hand. At first strangely light
then fierce kisses pulling at my skin,
leaving strings of pearl bruises, helixed rows,
as she wound and unwound quick as my heartbeat.
I felt along her bulk. Was that the thud of her heart?
But my cousin pulled me out of the water
fearing she would release her beak’s jagged row
to puncture the shell and send my blood blooming
like an ink cloud occluding her veined skin.
He shook me in the exhibit hall’s dim light.
She slunk back to her rock and I to the dusty light
of the library to read about the three-hearted
octopus with its alien limbs. Their skin
can’t tell them where they are, arms whip water
neurons gather other data and her bloom-shaped
brain collects these messages, sorts them in rows
her skin alive to minute changes, while we rely on light
sighting along rows. No wonder we have clumsy hearts;
we never feel such nuance, nerves orbiting, blooming.
