It's not that the octopus wouldn't love you—
not that it wouldn't reach for you
with each of its tapering arms:

you'd be as good as anyone, I think,
to an octopus. But the creatures of the sea,
like the sea, don't think

about themselves, or you. Keep on floating there,
cradled, unable to burn. Abandon
yourself to the sway, the ruffled eddies, abandon

your heavy legs to the floating meadows
          of seaweed and feel
                    the bloom of phytoplankton, spindrift, sea-
          spray, barnacles. In the dark benthic realm, the slippery neckton
   glide over
the abyssal plains and as you float you can feel
                               that upwelling of cold, deep water touch
            the skin stretched over
                      your spine. You can feel
fished for and slapped. No, it's not that the octopus
                                wouldn't love you. If it touched,

if it tasted you, each of its three
hearts would turn red.

Will theologians of any confession refute me?
Not the bluecap salmon. Not its dotted head.

Copyright Credit: Mary Szybist, “The Lushness of It” from Incarnadine. Copyright © 2012 by Mary Szybist. Used with the permission of Graywolf Press.