Is not octopi.
It’s octopuses.

Because you can’t stick a Latin ending
on a Greek word,
and octopus is as Greek as Achilles,

oktṓpous, the singular creature, and
oktṓpodes amounting to more than one
of the cephalopods,

whose very name translates to “eight legs,”
though the creature possesses a beak like a parrot,
injects venom like a snake and spouts ink

like an old-fashioned pen. A single octopus
can weigh as much as a man, stretch as long as a car
and somehow squeeze its baggy, boneless body

through an orange-sized opening. And while
elusive in the wild, master hiders that they are,
I stand transfixed before the glass where

I watch a young female octopus in temporary
residence in a small aquarium. She tucks
herself away here, too, and I cannot blame her.

She did not apply for this position. But she,
who can taste with her skin, whose mouths
ride in her armpits, who is as smart as any

dolphin or whale, captivates me with two
long, floating arms, the translucent suckers
like so much body art adorning her. I squeak

when one of her eyes opens, imagine that
she sees me fangirling her, the saltwater star,
wondering if she’s as curious about me

as I am about her—pearly smooth in her
creamy outfit, soft bodied and relaxed
before she is returned to her native

waters just outside these walls, for
which I am glad. No one should have to
live away from home for too long.

I wish her well, hope that she’s as happy
as a clam (bet she’s heard that one before),
watching her bubbles waft upward toward

the light, imagine her at home in the sea,
a sly hunter waiting—the picture of patience—
to make her long-armed move.

•••

With thanks to the astonishing writer Sy Montgomery for her classic book,
“The Soul of an Octopus,” which has taught millions like me about
these remarkable animals.