The Coming of the Jellyfish
When all the fish are finished
flexing on the deck
and the sea grass has been chewed
down by black spike sea
urchins set like slow
motion demolition charges
strung along skyscrapers,
the jellyfish show up
to cruise the graygreen barrens.
All petticoats and no legs,
translucent parachutes
descending then feinting
away from their descent,
they trail half a dozen
fallen power lines
ready to whip sparks
off the skin of anyone
who dares cup the swell
of their milkless breasts.
After all our feeding frenzy, this
serenity; after all our
overfishing, this fleshiness
on which we cannot feed.
They leech a little color
off any passing light,
like water, or like ghosts
arriving to haunt water
where everything that lived
has died before its time.
Don’t let them fool you
with the lazy, sighing
way their bodies move
in on new territory.
Under a hundred
such umbrellas
the apocalypse
saunters to work.
The poem begins with what seems to be an ordinary fishing incident; and then, as quietly and subtly as drifting jellyfish, it broadens out, sweeping the reader along with beautiful and terrifying imagery. I remember reading an article about the proliferation of jellyfish in the oceans as a result of human interference. This is every zombie or alien invasion movie made real. This is your nightmare happening right now.