Faithless

Lying beside him, she confesses she's always been afraid

of jellyfish: You just can't trust a body you can see through.

In aquariums, they paint the walls of the tank bright blue

and shine neon orange spotlights on the swarms

so onlookers don't stare straight through them, 

so they get their money's worth. They look

like balled-up Kleenexes with snot hanging down,

like the bitter aftermath of an argument between lovers,

but better snotty than invisible, because unseen

things aren't worth five dollars, unless it's a magician

who wears a suit with red satin lining and disappears,

only to come back and bow for the cheering crowd

of old ladies who probably paid fifty dollars just to see him,

then not see him. They could have just walked out

of the theater to do that, but the magician's way is flashier

and eerie, like a tank full of jellyfish ready to sting.

She wouldn't trust that man either, though she might

not fear him like the depths of the ocean.