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Oyster
Oyster Entering the bed like plunging into the ocean. Sealed shut, to descend. Dreaming I cling to the ethereal root of the mangrove.
My daughter’s hand coming into the dream, trying to open my valves. I hold my breath and peel away, one by one, her delicate fingers.
In the dream someone told me oysters are capable of changing their sex. What would I give in exchange for my body? All mine to fill with water and salt, to drain it of scratches, of caresses. The craving in my husband's hand has the temperature of boiling water. I am a mollusk: I retreat at the touch.
Deeper.
As if this ocean were not a mere estuary of sheets, I dodge every touch coming from that land called family.
I want to find an islet within my soft breast, but there is only sweet water, salt water— like the double-edged blade of love. I want to open up without haste for myself, and recognize the pearl and celebrate it, without forgetting the violence of its gleam.
Oyster Entering the bed like diving into the ocean. Closed tight, to go down. Dreaming I hold on to the delicate root of the mangrove.
My daughter's hand coming into the dream, trying to open my valves. I hold my breath and peel away, one by one, her gentle fingers.
In the dream someone told me oysters can change their sex. What would I give for my body? All mine to fill with water and salt, to empty it of scratches, of caresses. The craving in my husband's hand feels like boiling water. I am a mollusk: I pull back at the touch.
Deeper.
As if this ocean were not just an estuary of sheets, I avoid every touch coming from that place called family.
I want to find a small island within my soft breast, but there is only fresh water, salt water— like the double-edged blade of love. I want to open up without rushing for myself, and recognize the pearl and celebrate it, without forgetting the violence of its shine.