Abstract
No mother could give more—Jim Cosgrove, Biologist How they fashion a pillow from their front tentacles for their lovers The Police will come if you pull down your doll’s knickers. these adept navigators in the abyssal waters We have nothing in common with the anxious foreigner. … feetless, escapologists That Helen went willingly. these great rhapsodisers of the sea … Everything on your plate was tenderly coaxed into submission … how they love and live brightly … yes even the lamb. their engorged hearts pulsing (they have three) Michael Jackson died because he ate too much butter. standing vigil over their milky teardrop babies The blurry defenseless bee is not worth fighting for. forsaking food, forsaking comfort That’s hair on your body, not fur. they live not long, unnourished That sunlight smells of nothing. their bodies fade … Obedience. Obedience. Obedience. their souls finding shelter amongst the sea-grass
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