I want to tell you about the purple      octopuses, more
than a thousand nestled          into grooves of volcanic
rock. I want to show you how              there are streams and curls

of them, hills of purple globes            underwater, and not even
the researchers can see          where they end. They’re females
mostly, brooding, caving their shiny              eggs. They keep

their eggs unsandy and safe. They eat           less and less
as their eggs grow       older and then the octopuses grow
into water (I read this               later). You would know

which shade to name              them—I’ve tried lavender
and lilac, iris comes      closer, but these octopuses
are surrounded by gastropods            and anemones

and I don’t want to plant         flowers underwater. Better try
and stop                       naming everything that comes
my way—womanoctopus,                    cliffside-tentacled-

motherhood—and just                         watch them
wrap                            their arms around themselves
and around     themselves and the ocean.