That year, we flocked to the beach
in our togas and grad caps, determined
to become jellyfish. We gave ourselves

one final week to be human: Joe tried
jumping off a waterfall, Ekko kicked
a dune into Chan’s eyes, and I lay down,

submerged in the starlight refractions of
emptied Sparkle soda bottles, and talked
with my best friend Cisco about everyone

we would leave behind once we surrendered
our skin and dissolved into the saltwater.
The day of, we waded an hour through

the waves and the seaweed, our gowns
swelling all sponge-like, so close to the
boundary where sea turns to ocean –

and then Acads, who’d gone further ahead,
screamed. A tentacle had spawned inside
all his waterlogged cloth – had harpooned

his side, his flesh warped, gelatinized,
a wet brand in the shape of a tassel seared
across the length of his chest – we left him

flailing in the current, scrambled shore bound –
we huddled in towels, swaddled him as soon as
he escaped the tide, then swore never to swim again.

Seven land-years later, I find myself standing
on that same bank of shards – the broken
homes of countless miserable slugs –

and imagine that instead of Acads, it’s me
in the water, half-transformed, a stinging
tendril tangled in the outline of my ribs –

my friends run back – the placid sand –
the lives they left there – defying the riptide
tugging at their heels – I –

let myself be –
captured by the electric
hold from below.