The mother by Lindsay Stewart

“The mother octopus lives in the cave for up to seven months as the curtain of eggs develops…. She doesn’t eat during this time and usually dies shortly after the young hatch.^[1]”

It’s a slow, steady fade
for her, as her babies
swell into bright being.
The starve. The surrender.
She readies herself for
the guard, prepared to
become ghost for the
sake of her small
selves. She knows
exactly how this will
end. She turns whiter
and whiter until they
are ready and they are
ready and they are
ready. (There are so
many of them and
only one of her). The
word for her tentacles,
curled around her
young, is a clutch.
The length of time in
which she weathers
her watch: a brooding.
Imagine her, perched,
pale and love-long,
in some dark shelf,
knowing she will
never meet what
she has made, and
making, making anyway.
Quiet and final, she
welcomes the empty
with so many many
open arms.

Lindsay Stewart is from Glen Ellen, California. Her second home is San Diego, where she is currently pursuing a master’s degree in American literature at San Diego State University. Her work has previously been featured in The Alcala Review and BEATS.

^[1] montereybayaquarium.org