Ballet of chance. Drifters who nevertheless
own the sea—see-through light fixtures
trailing their cords, plugged into the space of home. Windows
on place, where-they-are pouring through their very core.
It’s been years since I dragged you across land, traded one ocean
for another, then, dragged you back. I’m here to ask:
Will you come with me again? Over water this time? Human:
pitiable species. Forever trying to locate what’s innate.
Bulbous-headed creature with brain so big
it must be born early and helpless, goblet of knowledge
pushing its know-it-all way out first, only later the gangly limbs.
Common off the coast of Ireland—the dangerous lion’s mane,
its sting causes pain and swelling. Sea gooseberry, illuminated
runners rolling along its body as if directing one toward escape in case
of emergency. There’s the simple mushroom-topped moon jelly. And one
called a compass, markings on its dome that convinced someone it knows the way.
Kathryn Petruccelli is a Pushcart-, Best of the Net-, and Best Small Fictions-nominated writer who holds an obsession with the ocean and an MA in teaching English language learners. You can find recent work in places like West Trestle Review, Tinderbox, SWIMM, About Place Journal, RHINO, Fictive Dream, and SweetLit. She teaches pay-what-you-can workshops, writes the Substack newsletter, Ask the Poet, and hosts the forthcoming Melody or Witchcraft Podcast that discusses the sources of literary inspiration. More at poetroar.com.
