Jellies
      The Black Sea, 1987

One day they just appear, thick
and floating like a sea
          of condoms among the trawlers.

A swimmer feels one
squelch against his palm. Farther
          out, dolphins

whistle while a sonar counts
the seconds it takes for an echo
          to return.

Pull one from the water: trans-
parent, malleable—nothing
          to it. Watch the ship's dredge

carrying them upward
with a mysterious pair of fresh-
          water shells, milky as anniversary

pearls—evidence, perhaps of flood.
Rain breaks against her
          rented shack, fracturing

a dream of arrival home
to her husband: behind him, a sign,
          Caution, Deaf Child

at Play. And beyond,
a Yield, the dove making
          its empty-beaked

return. No one foresaw how
quickly they'd multiply,
          feeding on plankton

until the sea bloated. See how
the children squeeze
          their fists,

hurl the glistening
jellies at one another,
          dodging the quick sting.

Copyright © 2006 Sara Talpos All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission