The Rossby number

Out in the open compass jellyfish point towards the shore their bodies pulse sensing land they fight the current until the last motions of their bodies die out on the sand or ooze on a rock in the kitchen vibrant orange segments drift to the sides of the boiling pot their white compasses ride the waves pink foam latches to the side as grandmother stirs and breaks in the cold mouth of the December sun when we were children and all such drinks were forbidden the frozen taste of meltwater trapped then let loose dilutes into countless spoonfuls of snow hidden sips of mulled wine and cold cuddles in home-knit sweaters grandmother preserves winters when a thread comes loose the whole sweater unravels into crinkled memories in the sea before us compass jellyfish are left behind by the receding tide coarse wool floating on meltwater gilded by sand zested orange segments surface in a red sea and wilt their oral arms come apart like pulp

Vera Fibisan