Bioluminescence
Jade Mark B Capiñanes He was pumping air into his wife’s lungs
when I arrived. She lay on a steel bed,
and I, their grandnephew, appealed to a nurse
for some warmth, at least a blanket. In this dim room
metal and glass barely glistened. One midnight,
when I was young, he woke me up to catch crabs.
With ease he dismantled the pyramid of rocks
that sheltered the shelled creatures under their stilt house.
I held the torch as he hauled a bucket filled with knocks
and clatters, and when we reached the sandbar
he said, Take a look, and put out the fire. In the dark
the sea and sky blurred, but beneath our feet
the sand and seaweed shimmered. The stronger
you stirred them, the brighter the bluish lights
they created, the longer they lasted. Now here he was,
my granduncle—as strong as ever, squeezing
the Ambu bag to resuscitate his dying wife.
She would survive, but would be bedridden for life.
On her headboard he would fix a handwritten note:
My dearest wife, I love you. Forever and ever.
But tonight, in this starless room, he stirred on—
to keep the bluish lights glowing for a moment more.