Mermaid’s Purse

There is no such thing as sacrifice,

though the bleeding doesn’t end.

The self is the self yet bigger than itself.

Indebted. And subordinate

to the unity of its fragments,

loopholes in the loop of wholeness.

Cat sharks lay their eggsacs,

which eat themselves in gestation,

for if fewer mature sharks,

bigger portions at the feast

of the loggerhead turtle, which

will never again be a single entity.

Out of one, many. If blameless,

then meaningless, dissolved

by a cloud of sardines, flashing

silver as if paying for breakfast

in a silent movie starring no stars.