by Anne Whitehouse
Fifty years ago my sister
got stung by a jellyfish,
and she hasn’t gone back in the ocean.
I’ve never been stung so much
that I wouldn’t go back.
In green waters suspended with sand,
soft-bodied swimmers I cannot see
brush against me as I glide by.
Just imagine—not ever going under,
always in air and not in water,
never feeling the wonder
of an alien element all around.