Rochelle Nameroff Jellyfish             She wants the evidence, to know what happens. The collapse of the engine of lungs, or a rash of tiny pinpricks along the spine. Stung, the smack as if thrashed with a whip, a mirror for the tentacle. The victim is a mirror and must keep looking. The child with her arms bent back for her sins, now a bracelet of welts worn under sleeves. She used to poke them with a stick after the waves made them obey, their translucency hued like a party, and blowing. Something to fly away in, So like placentas—                               She would be found in a closet behind the coats, dressed in her punishment clothes: the dark blue jumper and ruffled blouse, the short white socks and Mary Janes. Pretty things to show a mother. So beautiful, like caresses riding the waves. Like hair which throttles in dreams. The Sea Nettles, with their milk-white arms hanging down around the mouth, the bell a dress worn by dolls. Hit with a brush, with a dull brown strap, she knows her beauty. Better killers than sharks are the Sea Wasps. A poison directed to the heart. There are reports Of scar formation, and prolonged, near fatal darkening of the wound. The beautiful must show an image of survival, autumn the loveliest bruise—

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