A nomadic jellyfish stings you
the day you turn twenty-one.
Stumbling up from the shallows,
you fall, a beautiful shipwreck,
screaming, your skin rising like bread,
blooming like cigarette tips.
Neither of us wants to pee on it.
I ask if the jellyfish is now your white whale.
Uninterested, you say you want to name it Craig,
after your dead father.
You run your hand across your blistered leg and say,
Maybe Dad was just telling me happy birthday in braille.
Your rash-dots actually spell the word ice,
but if holding my tongue means holding your hand,
I say nothing, watching your eyes
scour the Pacific, combing for more signs of a ghost.
–
Jordan Hill is an M.F.A. candidate and Lawrence Sanders Fellow at Florida International University, where he also teaches creative writing. He is a Sundance Co//ab Imagined Futures runner-up and Screencraft Cinematic Short Story finalist.