when I came back from Greece
the summer I was ten I had new
skin on my calves where the old
skin had burned in the Aegean
sunlight while snorkeling
with Michael and his older sister
and I had grown another inch
or two and the things I had seen
like Michael’s grandpa emerging
from the surf with an octopus
a hepta-demi-pus he punned
for it had seven and a half legs
the creature clung to his hand
slow and insistent
put me back it seemed
to say to the old Greek
who charged us with the task
of tenderizing the octo-
hepta-demi-pus on the hotel steps
I stood aside and watched
pale-armed Michael lift
and hurl the life ebbing
the ink sac break the writhing
survivor’s supple limbs
slacken against the beachfront
stairs until Michael
and his grandpa presented
the tentacled mass of flesh
to the kitchen for dinner that night
when I came back from Greece
the summer I was ten my mother
told me not to tell my father where
I’d been and when he came to visit
I did as I was told and lied
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 6.
Ben Boegehold is a poet and teacher living on Mount Desert Island in Maine. His work has appeared in Cincinnati Review, Stonecoast Review, and a number of
anthologies. When not writing or teaching, he can usually be found hiking in the woods or exploring the rugged coastline in his sea kayak.
See all items about Ben Boegehold
