Mother Pearl

You are small and glossy
in the hands of your Mother,
not quite the pearl treasure
they are so fond of – a light scum
clouding the shine of newborn
delicacy like a coat of fog.

You washed up on the shore,
a soft pink shell bump bump
bumping through the teeth of the
sea and the parting foam.

You won’t come apart, holding on
with a tentacle, tightening
your grip on the Mother’s belly.

What are these limbs?
This flesh spreading from all angles
as starfish splaying their legs.

What is this sound? A dull echo
rises in gurgles as if drowned
in the thrashing waves of a tempest.

The tide meets the hum of life and
unimaginable light pours, too clean
after the swaddled depths.

There’s a shape above you, round
as the Moon. You can’t stop breathing.

11th February 2016

What inspired me: Twenty-three years and I still can’t stop breathing. I wondered if I hurt my Mother Pearl. I wonder if I still do. I’m merely a flounder, living another year past my holy death hymn.