Poetry | Clam

By Ny'Ara Willis, Staff Writer

Clam

 

My oyster is the world, take it

fried not boiled, not fond of 

the idea of waste, he said I was

recyclable but he didn’t say ME.

I open, bloom underwater

flush out and drown in waves

swallow salt and cough lungs

full, emptied. Meta-physical

 

or metaphorical, I see my world

in the hues of a rainbow. Conch 

shells of land, shells in hands. 

Shells in hair and resting on necks.

 

Shells from crabs, rimmed with 

bits and sprinkles of earth,

volcanic ruins to sedimented mountains

I walk unarmed. Unearthed I am found.

 

Vortex of elements at the tips of 

my fingers, a feeling left untouched

no place remaining solid, I

crunch down, the bite of a clam.

 

A fresh pearl awaiting inside.

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