I want to live like the glistening orb
of a jellyfish I saw on my first morning
at Folly Beach. No need for a brain or complicated
feelings. Just a flesh-colored four-leaf clover
of nerve net beneath thin, gelatin skin.
Able to take in what little breath I need by diffusing
through membrane from sea. Fewer barriers. Less striving,
too. How true to be all stomach and stinging strings. Whisper
threads that harbor baby fish who know my poison
can protect as well as stun. Heat lightning. Green
water. All of this without a heart or lungs. Watch me
hug in whatever food floats by. Watch me consume
only what I can swallow whole.
Paige Gilchrist lives in Asheville, NC, where she writes poetry and teaches yoga. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Kakalak, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Amethyst Review, and The Great Smokies Review.