by Kerrin McCadden
What have I lost at sea
is a question you insist has an answer,
the gap between flotsam
and jetsam begging the question
about discarding versus truly losing,
and while you explain that flotsam floats
up from inside and jetsam is
introduced into the water,
I think instead about generosity,
about walking into the bathroom
at work and the paper towel dispenser
has already begun its offering,
triggered in the dark
to roll out its dry tongue
before I open the door and switch
on the light, how one place
where the dark is holy and offerings
are made is not the sea, where generosity
is not a thing but beauty is:
the octopus walking on two legs
is beautiful, jet-packing away
or shrinking into a shadow it makes
of itself, countless waving arms
of anemones, the seahorse
that never seems to tip,
the tiny fans in all the gills,
the moray eels in caves, even the shark.
I think finding anything in the sea
would be impossible. I am not at sea.
I have lost everything here.
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