When my husband says divorce,
I start decorating the interior
of my cardboard tent, stock
it with cans of SpaghettiOs
and Bumble Bee (flip-topped),
re-do my hair into a wild Einstein
without the Nobel or any theories
about relativity—
so when I hear him say
incompatibility, I’m already mixing
oil with water until an unctuous coat
lays flat in the missionary position,
smothering me below deck
where I peer out a porthole
at the infinite deep—
all those sea creatures
emitting their own light—
to find an octopus, flexing its limbs,
who also prefers to live alone.
Bioluminescence
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