Mo Po Again.

The Lushness of It It’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you— not that it wouldn’t reach for you with each of its tapering arms: you’d be as good as anyone, I think, to an octopus. But the creatures of the sea, like the sea, don’t think about themselves, or you. Keep on floating there, cradled, unable to burn. Abandon yourself to the sway, the ruffled eddies, abandon your heavy legs to the floating meadows of seaweed and feel the bloom of phytoplankton, spindrift, sea- spray, barnacles. In the dark benthic realm, the slippery neckton glide over the abyssal plains: as you float, feel that upwelling of cold, deep water touch the skin stretched over your spine. Feel fished for and slapped. No, it’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you. If it touched, if it tasted you, each of its three hearts would turn red. Will theologians of any confession refute me? Not the bluecap salmon. Not its dotted head. ---Mary Szybist