Birth of Pearl

To trace the lines of my spiral heart

And follow the shoreline on my hallow chest

Feel the polished stone,

that precious little pearlescent piece deep inside me,

that’s been so kept away.

I want someone to hold

my little conche shell body, and touch its ridges.

I want someone to see me

curiously, and cradle my spindly thorns

between those fingertips

and press me close to their ear.

They’ll mark this moon sliver of time and say,

This is the first time I’m really listening to your heartbeat.

They’ll hear ocean tides pound and splatter those lonely points.

All sacred places without name finding their way into my DNA.

No return stamp, and no escape.

I must wait out this terrible storm.

Slam and crash into walls and doors,

Pour all of myself out those bay windows,

And at last land in the little sand dollar bank.

All rounded pieces and open vessels.

All sunburnt seaweed tresses.

My heart was starting this new and incredible act-

Of cracking wide open in the face of

Frenemy/ or foe/ or forever.

But there is no

Spackle/ or paste/ or faith

To seal this crack back shut.

I am unzipped by age.

There’s no cure for this ailment.

What we call sea sickness is what I call

being in my own body.

The constant churning of storm, or

of sobbing sea.

But that’s how pearls are made right?

As a defense against villains.

Nothing to enter my husk

Or, damage my fragile little body.

I am tender meat.

I am tangy pearls under tongue.

I am sacred shell.

I am/ I am/ I am.