The Salvation of Aurella Aurita
I check them every day to make sure
they’re happy and in good shape.
—Dorothy B. Spangenberg, Ph.D.
Jellyfish born in space aren’t happy
On earth. I don’t believe in any hocus-pocus
New-age mumbo-jumbo, but I hurt for this
Species of boneless electric wonder
Named after the moon. Self-possessed by
A terrifying terrestrial bulk--weight--
They feel fat, slow, depressed, dying not
In the luminous white noise of galactic emptiness
But in casserole dishes, under-understood,
In some under-funded underground
NASA lab, poked by pencils, punctured despair
Seeping from their glassy globes. Perhaps
They pine for the way the weightlessness
Of space made them feel more like light bulbs
Than corpses. I’d trade my life for that
Delusion of worth. The future is cannibalistic
For glowing things dimmed. And space-born
jellyfish-lungs ache when the bluster
Of breath pollutes the soul. Then what’s left
To be saved? I say, rocket them homeward,
through the incinerating mist of earth’s atmosphere.
May their longing to be ethereal again
Cremate the damage of gravity. May the space dust
Of their pain dissipate into the gasping void.
First published in the minnesota review, Fall/Winter 2015
I check them every day to make sure
they’re happy and in good shape.
—Dorothy B. Spangenberg, Ph.D.
Jellyfish born in space aren’t happy
On earth. I don’t believe in any hocus-pocus
New-age mumbo-jumbo, but I hurt for this
Species of boneless electric wonder
Named after the moon. Self-possessed by
A terrifying terrestrial bulk--weight--
They feel fat, slow, depressed, dying not
In the luminous white noise of galactic emptiness
But in casserole dishes, under-understood,
In some under-funded underground
NASA lab, poked by pencils, punctured despair
Seeping from their glassy globes. Perhaps
They pine for the way the weightlessness
Of space made them feel more like light bulbs
Than corpses. I’d trade my life for that
Delusion of worth. The future is cannibalistic
For glowing things dimmed. And space-born
jellyfish-lungs ache when the bluster
Of breath pollutes the soul. Then what’s left
To be saved? I say, rocket them homeward,
through the incinerating mist of earth’s atmosphere.
May their longing to be ethereal again
Cremate the damage of gravity. May the space dust
Of their pain dissipate into the gasping void.
First published in the minnesota review, Fall/Winter 2015