Pearl
A pearl is a drop of sadness, lying
between my breasts. You told me
it looked decorative. Round
bead against round
chest. What kind of sound
would a pearl make
if it had a mouth stretched
wide as its belly: a birthing groan
born in the brain
of an oyster, a bitter complaint,
a cultured seed. Your skin
is smooth against mine; I am not
decorative but full of holes
you can push your finger through. I am
a cracked cup
modestly embellishing her blemishes
with garlands, gems; this one
I bought with $8 my parents gave me
to spend at the diving show, my tiny
fingers dampening four dirty bills
in the ball of my fist. The diver’s white
cap fit tight against her skull
as she carried the bucket
of rough treasure no bigger
than my hand. She approached
like a fish reincarnated,
swimming and reswimming
familiar currents then tangling
inevitably in the hidden
net. Squinting in sunlight,
she does not belong
no more than this creamy stone
belongs between two sacks
of skin and fat. It is boring a shaft
in my chest, trying to return, remembering
only a spongey, dark home. This is an oyster’s scar
not mine. As you sound my depths,
I may cry out but into
my own universe, a cavity
that lets in no light nor lets
none escape. It may be easy
to find completeness in one
or two strokes. You fill me
and return to yourself unchanged; I’ve taught myself
to stay hidden while on display,
a living jewel, a sultan’s prize:
beneath the pirate’s gaze
I lie, everything round
and pure, everything good
and wholesome, everything seen
with the singing day on the ocean, a poultice
that smooths the world’s wounds, keeps secrets
and tells nothing.
