Prisons
Once on a forgotten beach
filled with sea and death
we came by a rotting whale. From pooling
flesh reached bleaching bones
in snaking knobs and soaring arcs, striping
the horizon into a cage. I backed away
breathless, ill
then fine, until
eight curling arms behind glass
recalled that memory. Every octopus
is a surprise
but only when seen within difference.
We’re more whale
than not, divided in two boxes
one containing ocean, the other
expectations. Some prisons are real
but most are not. Giant Pacific Octopus
are capable of unscrewing jars
from the inside. Perhaps
if we set ourselves free
none of us need press against this glass.
Wow