The Box Jelly
by Timothy Matos
When she woke,
she woke to find she was BIG.
The girl who was also a jellyfish--stretched full against the late light--
trailed her ripe stingers like pigtails across the roofs of nearby houses.
From this new height she could see she wasn't actually very far from home.
She reached out and wrapped a bulging arm around her neighbor's chimney--
anchored her other arm to their favorite lamppost.
It crunched deliciously as an egg carton.
Delicately she peeled the roof back,
delicately so as not to hurt him or wake his dad,
but she was suddenly sorry to see him asleep, a starfish on the bed, washed
up on shore.
He was her best friend.
It was cold.
She unwound herself, stubbing a truck here and there and brushing the tops
a bag hawk slung from snag to snag.
Leaves stuck in her pajamas,
and new sun-lit air tangled in her big hair.
The girl who was also a jellyfish, being the biggest, the biggest there ever
pulled herself to her belly,
whispered to her mother
and headed for a place less likely to crumble.
Were the mountains steep enough?
Was the ocean deep enough?
And when would they come for her?