SARAH CAHALAN

Syllogisms

Certain seaweeds are cellophane,
so thin, this green sheet
I hold before the sun.
Chartreuse, medicinal.
Probably it shields me from nothing.
For all I know it magnifies the light.

On this shore there are seaweeds
good for eating.
The dulse, the Irish moss,
bloody-browns resembling
the flayed skin of a saint.
Eat it raw or in a soup or dry it.

Like always, there’s a gauzy film
between this time and all the others.
Everything comes wrapped
in plastic.
Rip it off, quickly,
hide it in the trash.

None of this exact but I know
there’s math that can
connect

the seaweed, the plastic, my children,
my aunt who’s dying,
cells multiplying,
who says she’s proud of me.
She asks if I’ve been down to the water.