Poetry

The Rossby Number

Out in the open compass jellyfish point towards the shore their bodies pulse sensing land they fight the current until the last motions of their bodies die out on the sand      or ooze on a rock    in the kitchen vibrant orange segments drift to the sides of the boiling pot their white compasses ride the waves pink foam latches to the side as grandmother stirs and breaks in the cold mouth of the December sun          when we were children and all such drinks were forbidden   the frozen taste of meltwater trapped then let loose dilutes into  countless spoonfuls of  snow hidden sips    of mulled wine and cold cuddles in home-knit sweaters     grandmother preserves winters when a thread comes loose the whole sweater unravels into crinkled memories in the sea before us          compass jellyfish are left behind by the receding tide     coarse wool floating on meltwater gilded by sand zested orange segments surface in a red sea   and wilt                 their oral arms come apart like pulp

Vera Fibisan