How the Jellyfish Got in My Cereal
It didn’t just swim from the Gulf into my milk bottle.
Perhaps it was placed into my bowl as a gift
the way the Central Intelligence Agency
booby-trapped explosives in shellfish
for Castro to open.
I found out only later I was not a participant
in my parent’s separation. It was too late anyway.
It floated there so miserably, opalescent and gelatinous
as the brain of Roosevelt ignoring or expecting
the Japanese fleet of kamikazes on Pearl Harbor,
seagulls spearing the ocean for fish.
Just to feel valued I threw myself down the stairs,
forgetting no one was home.
There were raisins too around the jellyfish
like little people down below Operation Frequent Wind,
the choppers airlifting American soldiers and citizens
Away from everyone you love, or everyone you love
away from you, captivity and torture
seem to be the same as a child deserted on a raft
while parents on shore sunbathe sleepily.
Soft marine animal, blobbed on the top, adopting the color
of milk. Color has always been an issue for artists and tribes
to war with. The Sudan Liberation Movement
protests the Janjaweed and Janjaweed protest the SLM.
So naturally if one runs out of caviar for the dinner party
there are no neighbors.
I suffered without quarters at the arcade and I ate my candy
before dinner, so my father slapped me and ordered me
to my room. After he was asleep I ate more candy
staring at myself through the glass of his rifle cabinet.
I don’t know how it got here, like the discovery of God
or likewise the discovery of there being no God at all
or a God with laryngitis, mouthing signs with his hands,
and the translators, all of them, misunderstand or disfigure
or relay the message in their own image. Which is very God.
Then I knew. And bit into the brainless bell
of the invertebrate’s mushroom head.