Jellyfish, Ashore

At first, the body was a Ziploc,
vomited from the whip of the wave.
Closer, an ignoble whale,
pregnant with saline,
its iridescent skin excreting blackberry intestines
scattered with swaying tentacle tongues –
dazed by the champagne froth of the surf,
salivating for the arresting navy tide.
There is no breath for poison,
no cradled hand releasing the dying
into the mouth of the sea.

Saline

In the surgery room I thought of your legs,
pearl white planks you draw on,
pelvis to kneecap stirring blade beat.

That’s a lie – I had no cogitation
excluding emergent delirium,
tall silver machines, the menacing masks.
Doctors swarming beings over me,
overtaking clouds of amnesia
fighting consciousness from hemoglobin.

Amidst the panic I cried out for my father,
anesthesia leaking to plasma
as eight doctors strangled hysteria.
Where is my father?
Has he gone home?

In this rare snow, I miss your stomach,
your collarbone, the divots in your neck
opening to the light.
Snow drifts on slanted wings,
cleans the grates,
searches down the gutter.

Against the white I’m bandaged,
wool scarf, down jacket,
fleece thick with sweat.
My fresh wounds knit with fabric –
incisions playing badminton
against the rubbing alcohol of cold.

Zoe Ward is a creative writing and philosophy student at Denison University. Zoe is a graduate of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, the Adroit Journal Poetry Mentorship, and the Columbia Multi-Genre Creative Writing Workshop. Her work has been recognized by The Atlanta Review, DIALOGIST, Gannon University, and the JFK Foundation, among others. Zoe writes about writers and writing on mypen2paper.com. You can find her at @zoegward on Twitter.