Moon Jellies

Vashon Island

Evenings on the island I go out to see
these bright, formless things gathering
in darkness. From the deck I watch
their translucent bodies shifting shape,
drifting through the water.
Some nights I dive into the sound
and let the waters have me.
I’ve felt the brush of a jelly arm—
they never really sting. It’s the glimpse
of that phantom-thing gliding beside me.
Lately I’ve been dreaming of floating on
and on: nothing seen or heard;
no pain or joy, only weightlessness.
I wake to heavy legs, the smell of coffee,
voices laughing from a nearby deck.
Then in the cold sunlight I see them:
pink bodies strewn across the shore.
There must be hundreds lying there
to be poked at, stepped over, or ignored.
The time must be getting closer—surely
it’s getting closer now—to be without
brain or heart, or even any knowing
that knowing exists. Perhaps it won’t
be that bad, maybe even fast:
a little sting—then nothing.