The May Cape
By: Hannah Cole
an octopus climbs like a ladder, while angelfish flutter in the seaplants. Above your body, coral
towers cast shadows. Fish wheel
in a cloud.
Nearer to the shore, an underwater insect navigates the stony floor on stick-like legs. A squid is
piling his head with rocks. That’s because I’m here.
A quilt drifts down through the seaweed forest,
tracing an x axis while I swim the y. You threw it there yourself, making sure it caught the wind, then put clothes on over underwear and trudged towards the pier.
This was years ago; you were only old enough to buy a colonic
to see if it made you skinnier.
The best-smelling bug spray you ever smelled spilled. The scent clung to the quilt by the corner. On
one side the colors were wintery and dark, and on the other side pastel; you switched it as intended with the seasons. Now you can feel it, wet, clap against you. A girl’s bloodless rage could never stand up
against a man’s pain, which is like a typhoon,
a lever.
At the bottom of the ocean, fleshy flounces like pink dresses churn in the current, affixed to their rocks.
The levee bleeds warmly. Presently, an animal that looks like a human tongue
tastes the ocean floor
Hannah Cole (she/her) is a minimalist fiction writer based in Tennessee. She studied illustration at Memphis College of Art and later helped found Memphis Writer’s Group, a local workshopping collective. You can read more of her work at
hannahcole.substack.com, and reach her at hannah@memphiswriters.org.