“There should be room in the literature on octopuses for some exploration of the sensual, maybe even the emotional ways in which they communicate with us.”
– Sy Montgomery, “The Soul of an Octopus”

An octopus may recognize a man
And let itself be petted like a cat,
At least according to a woman
Who gave a mollusk friendly pats
As she tried to bridge a billion years,
Looked longingly into the creature’s eye
Behind a screen of glass and overcame the ancient fears.
Hope-filled she sought to see into the shy,
Discreet and modest being’s soul,
Dispel the aeons’ stubborn lie.
We view the alien life as a kind of ghoul
Which could not love even if it tried.
Despite the frightened talk, the joke’s on us.
Ours the alien heart, love’s in the octopus.

When capturing wolves
Begin with the eyes
Says Bonnie Marris
A painter of wild things.
“They hear voices older than time,”
Chants Cheryl Wheeler
Tuning to wolf-calls
Ancient and dire.
Wolves hold their secrets
Like precious bones
In iron jaws,
Gather on strong-hinged haunches
Ready for wolf-love.
Wolf-love all timeless
Faithful for life.
“Begin with the eyes.”
Of what do they speak?
Of the preciousness of secret bones,
Of the sacredness of mating. 

A goblet of
Ruby ichor,
Immortal quiet.
A long-necked
Jug, bedizened
With golden straw.

Peasant’s summer plenty:
Bread, terrene-tan,
Green figs a-split,
Vulnerable.
Basket’s silent meekness.

Dried sea anemones,
Stiff above.
A pied nautilus,
Fluted clamshell,
Perlucent sheath.
A starfish,
Dessicated.
Desperate.
Groping for the wet.
All still.
Still, life.
Still life.

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