Unnerving, the shell. Perhaps
terrible, the broad, muscular
foot, my legume of possibility, my knot of protein anchored
in a soup. Just a plain soup. I admire
your rough limbs arranged in a torical
dwelling-place, but I am a bivalve only through my mother
and I owe her my shell. I love my pearl
silently, ensconced
in a draft of a person. I can’t wait to be
a fossil, so my life can truly begin. I bring my mouth
close to twilight. I bring my mouth close
to dawn. I mollusk around. I snail my way across
time. I oyster myself to one name, then
another, then back to the first one. I swallow crepuscular
geometries, contorting myself as
I must, must somersault the universe
into being around me because someone
has to and I don’t see anyone else
volunteering. Unnerving, the ocean, perhaps
terrible, its dismal appearance,
its reek, its saturated growth salts, its fish
category, its pastiche. So
derivative. Let me direct you
to the exit: here is the ear.
Here is the apex
of the heart. Here is a fistful of ashes
for you to turn into ferns.
Audra Puchalski lives in Oakland, California, USA. She is the author of a chapbook, Queer Hagiographies, and her poems have been published in Bat City Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Cutbank Online, and others.
