Portuguese Man O’ War washes
        up in white foam
                where I walk the wide stripe 
        of wet sand. A little girl, just three or four,

plays at the water’s edge, pink
        plastic bucket, dark curls of wild
                summer-child hair. I turn and say,
        Be careful. Stay away

from that thing; it can still sting,
        but she doesn’t know me, maybe
                doesn’t hear, barely
        glances my way as she sets her wet

foot right on the purple
        puffed edge of the pillow
                full of knives and
        screams.

I try not to panic, scan
        the colorful sea of faceless
                people dotting a desert of beige.
        Where are your parents, honey?

She doesn’t answer, only picks
        up her foot, examines
                the wound, still wailing.
        My heart pounds

to the rhythm of her father’s
        feet, beckoned by her
                ear-spitting keen. He sprints
        from his chair, lifts her

in the air as I tell him
        what I witnessed. When he carries
                her away, I ache, wonder
        what more I could have done,

retrieve the drifting bucket, set it safely
        on the sand, stand
                around until someone comes
        to remove the carcass, tell

the throng of kids who gather,
        Don’t touch it. Please
                don’t touch it. This can hurt you 
        even after it’s dead and gone.