The Blue Octopus

Every bath toy moulded, tossed, except
the one my son tore open at the tentacle
which pours its hoarded water
from its wound each day and dries.
I hold it up and say “This guy’s a metaphor,”
and sunk amongst the bubbles my son
and daughter understand: a metaphor’s
a useless loose-limbed blob you’ve come to love.

First published in Juniper.

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