By Petra Kuppers
Godzilla rubbed his belly and burped.
Purple microbes popped in the hurricane,
loosened themselves in gut loops, kicked
the membranes, flicked across mucus
to the outside. They flew. Pacific rollers
silvered so they could surf, a gaggle of
abandon, too small to drown, fragments
of dinosaurian DNA unspooled in the dawn.
The ship breathed in the mist. The wave
sprinted in from the stern, the invisible
conga line kissed dull red metal, climbed
the hull up to an open porthole, slithered
in a bead of foam, and dripped right in.
Tiny violet streamers tasted and tugged,
hooks searched for nooks in sailor
flesh beneath the fresh howl of air,
the wave’s sinus ebbed away but here
was a home, moist human welcome.
Tissue-deep, the little ones roamed.
Vibrations sang into tangle.
Fangs connected to mitochondria.
A snore escaped, a crewman’s shuffle.
All settled to stew.
All bedded to starless heave of night.
Petra Kuppers is a disability culture activist, a community performance artist, and Professor at the University of Michigan. Her most recent books are the speculative short story collection, Ice Bar (2018), and the ecosomatic poetry collection Gut Botany (2020): https://www.wsupress.wayne.edu/books/detail/gut-botany