Poetry | Clam

By Ny'Ara Willis, Staff Writer



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.