This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

for t.s.

suppose a bloom of jellyfish spills through
the morning. wanes into the tub, sets down
beside you, stingers wiggling around your legs.

& you rattle.

suppose they’re grieving. each jelly lies in tears,
shredded on your belly like a soot tag.

& you still
think of fire before you sleep, though your sister
says that’s silly. the spiders can’t be plotting anything
new. they're dying anyway.
you acquiesce but you can feel them
crawling up your shins
each morning.

suppose the rest of the night is spent
peeling each stinger off your skin: the monumental task of
asking for forgiveness.

& still the nightmares slip in through the stings
embedded in your fingers.
your episodes continue. you shatter plates at breakfast,
and all your teeth are chipping,
every secret lost to flame.

suppose the gelatine becomes a jelly-fall; you slip,
collapse, the bathroom door spins open.
suppose the corpses turn to carpet, crunch beneath your feet.
suppose you’re wreathing on the supermarket floor,
delicate foam around your mouth, you only
want a cure –

my sea skater, treading over memory
of flashing lights: before you needed warnings.

before the jellyfish kept firing
and you requested mercy. instead,
meander through another seizure.

eris sker (she/they) is a junior at columbia college studying comparative literature & society and anthropology. they like moon jellies and peonies.