How the Jellyfish Prospered – Vandal Poem of the Day

It’s August in New York

& my lover’s alarm

siphons me into the kitchen

as the room fills with clouds.

I don’t mind poetry, not even here,

telling you I forgot the glass bottle in the freezer

of all places, shards I’ll have to pickaxe

with a butter knife.

How did I—when?

There is no question like the body.

I collect its fragments. My little butter knife /

chip / chip / chips. Angel folds her arms

around me while I sift through blue freezer light.

Somewhere far beyond

jellyfish bob on a wave while I gather shrapnel.

My teeth chatter.

Tears polyp at the sudden thought,

Thanks to this double-edged salt,

by the time I’m fifty, will I remember

anything at all?

The butter knife speaks: yield.

Yield.

Who needs memories when you have

arms around your waist?

I wed each wave

as it hits me.