ALEX VIGUE

 
 

 Comb Jelly

 

centered ample niche

           not bio not luminescence

scattered light, combed light

          cilia row, row, row

chemical sensory

           translucent cup

ctenophore, to carry

 

Quiet Blue Light

 

In the daytime 

        the small creatures 

sleep

    They shut     strained eyes

trying not to let the sun wake them

dreaming

their     fat    bean-shaped     bodies

    hold in all that

    silent energy

 

Some build symmetric shelled homes for themselves

out of the sunlight

 

Some grow new parts

that they don’t recognize

 

At night when the sun cocoons 

into its sister

some of the small creatures light up

 

They pump literal light     blue through

swollen cytoplasm

 

They greet each other as stars in the water            confide in each other’s glow

What a beautiful sapphire life.    They don’t miss their friends; they have a million others close by.

 

They can’t feel a broken heart 

they have no organs.

 

I say this but I have never asked if they feel heartbreak

perhaps somewhere in those luminous coils        there is a silent message

whispered in chemical formulas

                     sunlight         chemical energy

         Luciferin + Luciferase, Morningstar + Oxygen        light

 

The message reads, “I miss you,” in quiet cobalt. 

 

 


 

 
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Alex Vigue is a queer writer from a small town in Washington State. Alex volunteers in local schools teaching poetry to students and four of these students have had their poems on display on the local buses. Alex's chapbook, The Myth of Man, is available Floating Bridge Press. You can find him on twitter @Kingwithnoname and at alexvigue.wordpress.com