How Some Jellyfish Are Born

I’ve been patient for long enough, and now—
the blood-soaked chicken breast is clothed in flour.
It becomes rosy pink. My fingers,
still look fat and clumsy holding the book.  

I saw you around everywhere that month,
the library, the cliff, the rooming house.
I couldn’t look into your flashbulb eyes—
I am a soul-stealer without a soul.

The night you washed the freckles from my face,
I made a mirror of the way I looked,
and wished I could swim in your bathwater,
and make moments happen by pressing play.

I have grown gills; I can breathe finally,
and I’m your goldfish now, like most days.