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OCTOPUS SONNET
The prophet casts her mantle from her hand
to drape the shoulders of her successor—
in flexible skin that shifts and covers well.
one arm to carry a staff of sorrow
two arms to twine in earnest prayer
three arms to lift toward the singing stars
four arms to reach the quoins of terra
five arms to grasp the shells of mussels
six arms to grab at God and wrestle
seven arms to stir the briny seas
eight arms to trail when time to flee
Now wanders alone this watery land—
abyssal desert scant of bidden succor—
a silent messenger wrapped in her own pall.
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Copyright © 2015 by Troy's Work Table.
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