Carolyn Adams




 When I was eight, I trapped
a fingerling squid at the beach,
splashed it into my aquarium.
Stressed, its skin
writhed with internal convolutions.

Dark spots appeared on its mantle,
then they were gone,
then presented again, but larger,
then smaller, then
gone again. Simultaneously,
the under-surface shimmered
like a hologram
that dulled, then glowed,
back and forth.

As if one transparency
slid over another,
two small films of pain
projected simultaneously
on its flesh.

I watched it move like that for hours.