Alien Aquarium
Poetry
Diana rises to the water’s surface in the small tank
to investigate me, stranger in her small world
of study, care. Her handler tells me to put my arms
slowly into the water for Diana’s inspection.
With two of her eight arms, she tastes and sees
mine with her suction cups, sensation unlike any.
One eye, like mine, focuses on my face. She draws me in
and I would enter the water willingly if there were room
in her tank, if I could breathe underwater. Invertebrate,
mollusk, cephalopod, escape artist, ability to squirt
those she dislikes, match color and texture to surroundings,
or leave predators confused in her wake of ink.
No squirting today. When I return, she remembers me.
She likes me? Her predecessor got out and dined
on study animals in other tanks. One mated with another,
both died, as they do when breeding in the wild.
I want to know her thoughts, how she sees the world.
I know so little of her mind, so little of my own.
Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in Potomac Review, The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia and writes every day.