Moon Jelly
It was large as a dinner plate,
translucent, holding
purple at its center
in diamonding sun. Saltwater-glazed
and round like a donut
or the face of a lover, so full
and open it resembles a window.
What I’m saying is I saw your face
everywhere, afterward.
Even in the jellyfish,
stranger than outer space,
beached along the shoreline
garlanded with kelp. Assuming it dead,
I tried to flip it over with driftwood
to view the underside
but when I got close I saw it—was it
even possible?—move like a pair of lungs.
So I guided it gently into the undertow.
In the water I saw straight through its body
to the horizon.
Saw light streaming through its body.
translucent, holding
purple at its center
in diamonding sun. Saltwater-glazed
and round like a donut
or the face of a lover, so full
and open it resembles a window.
What I’m saying is I saw your face
everywhere, afterward.
Even in the jellyfish,
stranger than outer space,
beached along the shoreline
garlanded with kelp. Assuming it dead,
I tried to flip it over with driftwood
to view the underside
but when I got close I saw it—was it
even possible?—move like a pair of lungs.
So I guided it gently into the undertow.
In the water I saw straight through its body
to the horizon.
Saw light streaming through its body.
Megan Kim is a poet from Southern Oregon. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the AAWW's The Margins, The Rumpus, and Hobart, among others. She is an MFA candidate in creative writing at UW-Madison, and reads for Palette Poetry.
Art: Molly Dunham