The Language of Cephalopod

by Wang Ping

She doesn’t have a bone, but her whole body is integrity.
She has eight arms, three hearts, blue blood, and a plan.
Her cephalo is her pods, her limbs are her head
Making millions of cells to display fireworks of intention.
She wears thoughts on her skin, travelling
From red to purple to blue to white to dark in God’s speed.
She opens jars, steals crabs from lab tanks and frees herself into
     the sea through sewage.
She’s the master of disguise and escape artist.
She wears her dreams up in her bumpy sleeves.
She spreads her multitude intelligence through her hands
She’s a loner, but when she loves, it’s a beak to beak, 8–armed
     embrace.
She dies young, after she mates, lays eggs and watches them hatch.
She’s shed her shells in exchange for freedom, at the cost of life,
     but no matter.
Young like a newborn, older than dinosaurs,
She’s free like a bird and smart as a whip.
Her whole being has become thought, word, syntax —
Displayed from skin to skin
What you see is what you feel.
What you feel is what you see.
A circuit of intent, expression and goal
A cycle of telepathy, passion and grace
Chameleon of thought
Plume of the sea
I’m your enigma of Cabala, Dao Dejing, Heart Sutra
Ten thousand eyes in my hands
Hold your non–sense of
Time and space
Cause and effect
Beginning and end . . .
I’m your Bodhisattva
Goddess of language
Writing mercy and love
In my pure black ink
Across your continent of mind