More Questions from the Sea of Dreams
Gay Brewer
I: Reproduction
You expect the whale's
skin to be Alaska,
but your open hand presses
its side, knows warmth,
the firm certainty of
age. You sense the animal
is female, a tired female
who lives deeply
and tolerates your overture
of kindness. You paddle
madly to stay afloat.
How does she wait so calmly?
Don't mammals move
to keep alive?
In refracted light
her huge body shimmers,
a blue you cannot explain.
II: Helplessness
Your father drove you
to the beach early,
before the trash men arrived.
Jellyfish and seaweed
clogged the sand.
He cautioned you that
even from death
those vitreous corpses
could fry your body
all the way up. Don't be
a sucker. Don't get stung.
Who's seen a jellyfish
alive, anyway? In water
they are invisible.
III: Secretiveness
The blade missed a jagged
lip of shell and took
the top off your thumb.
A geyser of red.
You threw the flesh away,
wrapped the rest in a towel,
returned to the oysters.
Guests on their way.
Each fought against the end
and, once opened, lay
gray and wet in its lid.
Did you ever find a pearl?
A flipper hand struggled
with the knife. You wiped
the red counter clean.
IV: Entrapment
The servant girl arranges
paella on a China plate,
you fork an octopus.
Its legs curl like a dry spider.
On television, a monster
molds to the submarine,
tentacles drifting toward
embrace and thicker
than your body.
Our heroes peer helplessly
from the portholes.
Can they possibly escape?
Mother octopus holds,
holds tight, never lets go.
