The nexus spine of all jelly fish rode through me like a lightning bolt. I sailed them over waves, I caught their hooks on my sweat-beaded tongue. Milk poured from every opening of my body.

I was/am (not) myself.

I did not know what to do with this saturation, this overabundance. Every limb on my body seemed to be pregnant and birthing. And so I cut the lining of my uterus, where I keep this fertility. I cut it and I let it bleed, let this unused excess rush out.

And after, I fell back into the salt of the water, let the seaweed curl its fingers around my locks of hair.

I whispered to all ears, I whispered silence to them, I whispered breath. We hummed together, the water and I, and from our humming came the whales and manatees. Their slippery backs cooled my skin from fever, from the hallucination of truth as separate from dream.