You'd like to watch me dance; mesmerised
by malleable billow, my trail of beads and silk.
It could be nice; we could meet beneath the tumult
for salty tea, I could watch you straining not to touch,
fingers fidgeting watery space as desire seeks
to override logic—again. I might present you
with a plankton salad, garnished with sea weeds
and a side of assorted shrimp; I think I’d enjoy
watching you grimace down each mouthful,
polite now it’s you sitting at my table.
You’ll excuse me hunting while we eat,
revelling in the pleasure of cnidocyte release;
are you sure you wouldn’t like more tea?
I’ll watch your mouth form silent sound, each word
a word-shaped bubble floating up and away, each word
legible—if we could bridge the interspecies translation gap.
You can stay a while longer, if you wish; I could tell you
(though you know most of the story between you)
how I became jellyfish—supple cloud of blown glass,
or a drowned plastic bag heavy with salt, depending
on your point of view; how as I sank in slow motion
my limbs softened and dissolved into ichorous
mesoglea; how I became the sea and the sea became me,
swell, sublime drift, inflation, and deflation, and deflation,
because there’s no steady, no anchorage, no thing
called unchange; I could detail all the days, all the ways
I was stung, but you would see no better;
I could tell you how I became jellyfish, but I won’t.
Instead I’ll flow about our coral table and impart this:
jellies are only a handful out of 13,000 species
in the phylum cnidaria, and of two broad categories,
I am a Medusa. Also, we’re mostly loners,
though occasionally we eat each other;
oh, and I can show you how I learnt to dance,
but remember: don’t touch baby, don’t touch.
Runner up in Wirral Poetry Festival's 2024 Open Competition
