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      September 28, 2009CnidariaLisa L. Siedlarz

      He is brain dead. His tongue moves,
      touches lips as if to moisten them.
      Grandpa’s tongue—heaving of the soul
      pushing, pushing at the portal.
      Tongue to eat. Tongue to speak.
      Tongue to kiss. Tongue—a jellyfish
      whose tentacles stray to sting us.

      This hospital room is hazy. Yet I know
      it like I know which dog walks in
      my room by the sound of claws
      on hardwood, know my lover
      is near from his cologne,
      know Grandpa is still alive
      because his tongue strays.

      My chair is close to his bed,
      an open paperback across my lap.
      He loved to fish so I read to him
      Old Man and the Sea.
      He once talked about jellyfish,
      translucent pink flesh expanding,
      collapsing, how they sting.

      In the hall, a little girl cuts dolls from tan
      paper, the kind attached at the hand.
      With crayons she gives life: blue eyes,
      red lips. Brown & black hair, yellow,
      like the little girl who is coloring. Expanded,
      a world of dolls hold hands & sing. Collapsed
      they are beached jellyfish.

      She looks up at me, her eyes the color
      of milk. Empyrean, she says. Empyrean
      spills from my lips, floats like hot ash
      grows brighter, stings my eyes. I raise
      my hands for cover. Translucent, I see my
      heart: Beat, beating, beaten.
      Walls are ivory and slightly dimpled.

      Sun casts rainbows through glass. In Grandpa’s
      sterile room, I touch his hand, watch his tongue.
      Collapse. Expand. Collapse.

      from #27 - Summer 2007