shell

it wasn’t to have been expected

that a river of coral petals

would cascade from my navel

and disappear into lace

the texture of a new-born’s fingers

wrinkled and yet softer than water

a lick of life across skin

with edges jagged of silt

stained remnants of a pomegranate

a melted ice pop trickle on palms,

a colour meant for springtime:

pink was not my favourite shade

it wasn’t ‘til I was opened up

that I would realise that pink is

just red muddled with my flesh,

rubies of organs and blood

a gurgle and pulse of exhaustion

ripples and creases gasping for breath

I was not yet ready to

throw in the towel just yet

the dimpled rind of a ripe grapefruit,

severed nerves in this feather of skin

you would think I could not feel

and yet, flushed, I feel it all.