My eldest daughter, sixteen this week, is hollering
from the tub for a towel. From her window
she sees all the way to the coast – we are close
but we do not flood.
On Jupiter’s moon, Europa, there is a sea
where underwater lilies wait for discovery.
Free-swimming larvae grow into juveniles
fixed to the ocean floor by a stalk.
Sea lilies have ten arms waving. Nerves.
A mouth that sings, at some alien frequency.
They are lit from within. They are their own
most important thing.
I haven’t been in for a while. She is overspilling
the bath. When she reaches out through petals
and bomb-glitter I see her armpit hair is long,
dyed sea-foam green.