Jellyfish

Adrift, you mothers of pearl,
yet nothing like this,
the ringing bells of women
who no longer exist,

who never properly lived,
yet drew life from within
the feeble or febrile minds
of presumptuous men.

The oceans are rich and green.
The sea-light, nacreous.
The swinging bells of women,
who have ceased to exist,

whose chimes of pulsing life
glimmer and spin and drift,
complexly, independent,
bearing no resemblance to this.

Bring me my bucket and spade!
Set me beside the shore,
the full draft – sons, patriarchs
delve as if to catch more.

The sea-light grows nacreous.
Clouds above, clouds at sea,
where you, mothers of pearl,
shoal, eat an angry sleep.