A Sermon on Jellyfish
King’s Cross, upper gallery
we sip watery cofffee.
Waves of arrivals and departures
bob psychedelic bonnets below.
I said the wrong thing; it flared him
into a parachute of contempt
with a cascade of pellucid curls,
ringing bells of animus,
ribbons of savage stings.
I floundered on the abyss, paralysed
while he pulsated at distance.
The poison which circulated left me
in the midst
of a mass of Pacific sea nettles.
Those dark mushrooms that narcotise
with feelings of inadequacy.
Even when torpid,
their cells resuscitate
to wound the aura again.
How to subjugate the smack
of jellyfish;
their umbrellas of orange gold
pain lined with a love
that feels dead?
One day instead
of protecting my skin
I agreed to let the toxic feelers in,
explore the origin of the sting.
and began to understand
That his intense distress
had produced an umbrella
of uprootedness
which could not suck the marrow
from my vertebrae.
The shame
eating away at me
needed to stop
taking things personally.
I read Matthew 5/38-48 NIV.
Jelly no longer threatened.
The other cheek beckoned.
Kate Hill-Charalambides is an English teacher of dual nationality who lives in Alsace. She has worked for an association against human trafficking which is recognized as being of public utility. Her poetry focuses on human rights, spirituality and feminism. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in DREICH 3 SEASON 9 (No.99), SNAKESKIN, Cerasus Poetry #4 and #5 ; Piker Press; The Dawn Treader, The Hyacinth Review and Outposts.
Amethyst Review 