the starfish

It is low tide. Fog. I have climbed down the cliffs

from Pierce Ranch to the tide pools. Now the ecstasy

of the low tide, kneeling down, alone. In six inches of

clear water I notice a purple starfish—with nineteen

arms! It is a delicate purple, the color of old carbon

paper, or an attic dress . . . at the webs between the

arms sometimes a more intense sunset red glows

through. The fingers are relaxed . . . some curled up at

the tips . . . with delicate rods . . . apparently globes

on top of each, as at World's Fairs, waving about. The

starfish slowly moves up the groin of the

rock . . . then back down . . . many of its arms rolled

up now, lazily, like a puppy on its back. One arm is

especially active and curved up over its own body as

if a dinosaur were looking behind him.

How slowly and evenly it moves! The starfish is a

glacier, going sixty miles a year! It moves over the pink

rock, by means I cannot see . . . and into marvelously

floating delicate brown weeds. It is about the size of

the bottom of a pail. When I reach into it, it tightens

and then slowly relaxes. . . . I take an arm and quickly

lift. The underside is a pale tan. . . . Gradually, as I

watch, thousands of tiny tubes begin rising from all

over the underside . . . hundreds in the mouth, hun-

dreds along the nineteen underarms . . . all looking. . .

feeling . . . like a man looking for a woman . . . tiny

heads blindly feeling for a rock and finding only air.

A purple rim runs along the underside of every arm,

with paler tubes. Probably its moving-feet.

I put him back in. He unfolds—I had forgotten

how purple he was—and slides down into his rock

groin, the snail-like feelers waving as if nothing had

happened, and nothing has.

~ Robert Bly

 from Selected Poems

photo by nick hobgood

with thanks to writers almanac