Mother
by Barclay Ann Blankenship
I watched a documentary
about an octopus with a short life.
To make more of herself,
she had to die, she knew. She knew more than me.
To give and give until all her giving dissolved
from her limbs, now just swaying in the current,
the most strange cloud passing. She’s too weak
to hunt, too weak to fight.
The sharks are swift with
her grey body, calling, “Come, I’m almost gone,”
and the creatures will have their way. Tranquil
while they pull at her meat, ripping in chunks, taut but fleshy still.
And she holds no malice,
no contempt, for their desperate taking. The small creatures come too,
and are worse in their own innate way, burrowing
her life for their own.
She used to be purple.
Now, only a faint resemblance while she makes her last flowing dance
underneath the white caps.
She used to play with the diver
she trusted.
Now, her tentacles are grazing the ocean floor, disrupting the still sand
in accident, in resolution.
And I cry for her,
the most true ghost the sea ever knew.
Even with bits of her missing,
digesting in some other creature’s darkness,
she’ll dance on.
She’ll dance on.
about an octopus with a short life.
To make more of herself,
she had to die, she knew. She knew more than me.
To give and give until all her giving dissolved
from her limbs, now just swaying in the current,
the most strange cloud passing. She’s too weak
to hunt, too weak to fight.
The sharks are swift with
her grey body, calling, “Come, I’m almost gone,”
and the creatures will have their way. Tranquil
while they pull at her meat, ripping in chunks, taut but fleshy still.
And she holds no malice,
no contempt, for their desperate taking. The small creatures come too,
and are worse in their own innate way, burrowing
her life for their own.
She used to be purple.
Now, only a faint resemblance while she makes her last flowing dance
underneath the white caps.
She used to play with the diver
she trusted.
Now, her tentacles are grazing the ocean floor, disrupting the still sand
in accident, in resolution.
And I cry for her,
the most true ghost the sea ever knew.
Even with bits of her missing,
digesting in some other creature’s darkness,
she’ll dance on.
She’ll dance on.
Barclay Ann Blankenship is from North Carolina and received her B.A. in English from Appalachian State University. In 2020, she was awarded Appalachian State's David Hodgin Writing Award for poetry. Her work has been published in Cold Mountain Review, Apricity Magazine, and others. When not writing, she can be found reading often, playing guitar, or somewhere outside.