Bloody-Belly Comb Jelly
Is it true that, when you eat your bioluminescent prey, the glow of your meal is hidden by the red
of your body, disappearing deep in the dusky twilight of the ocean?
Is it true you move through the constant motion of your cilia, fine structures catching the light of
underwater cameras, dancing shoes you can’t remove, lighting up the edges of you like a
fringe of fairy lights?
Is it true you are as full of microplastics as any of us are sure to be by the time we come to rest
under the biologist’s microscope, each of us in the end a blood red net of cells and beads
we cannot see?
You’re the only species in your genus. Who are you lit up for, little comb jelly, who is there to
admire your bloody belly in its strings of bright pearls? Why ring your ruby bell at all?
Is it true you are not alone in the dark?
Is it true we are not alone in the dark, in the crushed indigo velvet of deep ocean, deep sky, deep
grief, deep despair?
Here in the depths, where we move in small increments, propelled by whatever we offer the
world as friction against water or air or dirt or history, is it true?
of your body, disappearing deep in the dusky twilight of the ocean?
Is it true you move through the constant motion of your cilia, fine structures catching the light of
underwater cameras, dancing shoes you can’t remove, lighting up the edges of you like a
fringe of fairy lights?
Is it true you are as full of microplastics as any of us are sure to be by the time we come to rest
under the biologist’s microscope, each of us in the end a blood red net of cells and beads
we cannot see?
You’re the only species in your genus. Who are you lit up for, little comb jelly, who is there to
admire your bloody belly in its strings of bright pearls? Why ring your ruby bell at all?
Is it true you are not alone in the dark?
Is it true we are not alone in the dark, in the crushed indigo velvet of deep ocean, deep sky, deep
grief, deep despair?
Here in the depths, where we move in small increments, propelled by whatever we offer the
world as friction against water or air or dirt or history, is it true?
Spring 2026
Merie Kirby grew up in California and now lives in North Dakota. She teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems. Her poems have been published in Mom Egg Review, Whale Road Review, SWWIM, FERAL, Strange Horizons, and other journals.
Art: Pamela Hobart Carter
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper