Aquarium existence in an office,
glass walls and window panes.
A parade of people tapping
on an always open door.
Window washers claim
the best view.
Hired for radula sharpness,
to rasp against browning
sludge for that clean idea,
without the title I’m a slug
chewing through yesterday’s
decayed novelties. Boss milks
anxieties to extract Tyrian
purple ink, regal flourishes
for her mundane briefs.
Clinging to walls, I inch along
to retreat under my desk. Heart
mussel memory pumps saline
through not yet inflated lungs.
Trickles from eyes shed double
helixed pieces of me searching
for a stream that floats to the briny
shores of birth.
But like a hermaphrodite,
I screw myself and remain,
as empty as a washed-up seashell,
selling out far from the seashore.
First appearing in In/Words Magazine & Press: Issue 18.2
February 2019