An experiment in prose poetry, with thanks to Wikipedia.
Her arm may stretch, weak as wet sand, or bunch its sunction cups. It may stick to itself. It may taste a part. Yes, her arm tastes, but just parts. It can’t taste a rock. What a limit! In fact, each arm tastes by itself. The octopus wants to eat, and tells her arm, cagey until the tasteless eggs are in her gullet. Sometimes, if she’s threatened, an arm falls off. Its sick crawling serves as a distraction. Isn’t it contemptible? It pretends to be an animal! How long does it dirty itself with ocean debris until it dies? Is it even alive? Meanwhile the octopus is swimming, self-satisfied, her eye like frozen milk.
Copyright Megan Kennedy 2010
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How long does it dirty itself with ocean debris until it dies?
That’s my favorite line. There’s something casual and romantically existential about the whole thing that I really like.
By: BP on August 30, 2010
at 6:55 pm
Thanks Ben! I like that line too, and the last line. The middle needs some work. I might make it a non-prose poem and see what happens.
By: youareuseless on August 30, 2010
at 7:17 pm