The Octopus

by Sadie Zeiner-Morrish

 

The blue blood of the octopus had begun
To spill out and stain the sand when
I found its body on the shore. I remembered a story
About a man who cut the hearts out of beached whales
And buried them in the forest, the pulse so powerful
He could feel it through the tree roots a mile away.
I put my hand on the raised skin and could almost feel the beat
Of three hearts singing against me.
I watched its limp body, the tentacles curled up around the head
Like a mother protecting her young,
The body which must have gasped for an hour
For water to fill its gills before giving in.
If I could be a child again, I would become like a mother,
Give it a proper funeral, wrap it in seaweed, mourn.
I hoped the waves could take the body back,
Wash its blood-soaked sea skin,
In turn, I hoped to forget what I had not done.

 

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