Is everything shaped by what it escapes? The octopus has no bones, no rigid obstacle to conversion. Its head, a sack of organs. Its arms, nervous. Given a slit, it will slip through, as one in a New Zealand aquarium slid, forsaking the lid of its tank, squeezing out of the glass box, then easing this new idea of itself onto the floor, to the drain, that door to the ocean. My pulpy brain inside the stone of my skull shifts between octopuses and octopi, depending on the situation. The skin of the octopus transforms to rock, to reef, to shadowdappled sand. Every octopus is an orphan and lonely, breeding only once, then dying. The female hangs on until her eggs hatch—forgoing food, waving sighs of currents over her brood. Somewhere in Kansas, a little boy swallows a tiny octopus and chokes—his caregiver, arrested for abuse. The story flits through the murky news, then disappears. Above the Bosphorus Strait, we bite bits of suction cups bathed in lemon juice and watch dolphins leap below, stitching across the surface of the shipping lane— a lucky and vulnerable sight, but we don’t know this. The octopus has eight limbs and two hearts, like we do sometimes. In our own sea, we hide, obscured by squirts of ink. Just think, if you put an octopus inside a jar, it can slowly unscrew its way free.