By Gayle Reaves
Illustration by Amber Davis
Is it winter on your side of town?
Has the sea risen? Due perhaps
to shifting lunar orbits
or suitcases packing and unpacking
in unison. Denial and acceptance
move up and down my thighs
like tides, and I learn
a different breathing. My eyestalks
grow longer but see
less. Lips of shell open
and close with cloudy currents,
from the passing parade. I have begun
to layer you
with shiny excrescence, so as not
to feel the small jabs. They cannot
make me bleed. They
cannot enter the tender parts.
They increase my worth. I am full
of pearls. I will put them
on a watch to sell on eBay.
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