Self Portrait as Touch Tank Sea Star

So what if this water
hurts for current?

So what
if I have anemone’s arms
for sunbeam, blue-gray glow
of jellies for moon?

It is always full. My moon,
a carnivore.

And me, not so innocent.

See, I’ve been known to split
bivalves and mollusks
tossed
to this saltwater simulation.
Imagine
the hunger
of two stomachs.

A body
arranged around a single axis.

What have I done to deserve tenderness?

I will brave
live rock’s cool shelter,
tip toe
on a thousand tubed feet
towards even
the unwashed hands.

There is so much distance
between synonyms:
Hold and grab.
Touch and grope. Poke.
Prod.

I will stay underwater quiet.

I will accept
brown diatoms,
corraline algae,
bacterial biofilms.
General filth
of make-believe home.

Call it new tank syndrome.
Call it botched chemistry.

Call the horseshoe crab
for what it is:
Blue-blooded.

For me, there is only
sea-water veins,
whatever oxygen
I can garner.
And, yes, hunger.

Synonyms: Exhibit. Captivity.

Call me prop
for lesson,
educational experience.

I’ve never been
a tactile learner;
I tend to go by taste.

I tend to force stomach
from my body’s symmetry,
polish off a spread
of oyster and mussel,

draw back more than I ever could
with this tiny mouth alone.

I am hellish like that.

So when he pushes
stargrass aside
like a bra in some backseat
to feel for plates
of calcium carbonate,
tiny spines,

I do not stop him.
I become plaything,
learn gratitude
that anyone comes at all.

Nevermind the need for space
and salt.

Nevermind the wild
out there without me.

I will drop leg.
I will rest
with whelk
that don’t
speak my language.

I will wait naked
in this cold brine
for touch
I’ll learn to hate too late.

Faith Earl is a poet and copywriter who lives with her one-eyed dog and husband in New Jersey.

A POEM by FAITH EARL

TWO POEMS by SASCHA COHEN