The moon rose over the bay. I had a lot of feelings.

I am taken with the hot animal

of my skin, grateful to swing my limbs

and have them move as I intend, though

my knee, though my shoulder, though something

is torn or tearing. Today, a dozen squid, dead

on the harbor beach: one mostly buried,

one with skin empty as a shell and hollow

feeling, and, though the tentacles look soft,

I do not touch them. I imagine they

were startled to find themselves in the sun.

I imagine the tide simply went out

without them. I imagine they cannot

feel the black flies charting the raised hills

of their eyes. I write my name in the sand:

Donika Kelly. I watch eighteen seagulls

skim the sandbar and lift low in the sky.

I pick up a pebble that looks like a green egg.

To the ditch lily I say I am in love.

To the Jeep parked haphazardly on the narrow

street I am in love. To the roses, white

petals rimmed brown, to the yellow lined

pavement, to the house trimmed in gold I am

in love. I shout with the rough calculus

of walking. Just let me find my way back,

let me move like a tide come in.

Pandemic Poetry - plus Rabbi Jim's Blog