by Taylor Light
She crafts her ruses for survival:
camouflage, a severed arm,
distracting patterns, expulsion of ink;
or how her soft body can squeeze
through small holes for hiding spots.
This is her daily practice: play
as self-protection. Moving rock—
another trick—where she inches
precisely at the pace of tidal
movement, prepared to charm repel
a nearby shark—let them think
a rock is just a rock. It seems
a single wave could unknot
the whole disguise. Though she stays,
in nimble form, with eyes locked.
Taylor Light’s poems have appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Terrain.org, and elsewhere. She received her MA from Texas Tech University, and is currently an MFA student at the University of Florida.
Hawaii Pacific Review 