My eyes are clamshells—
closed, rippled, a hundred
glittering blue gems on my lashes.
My fingers throng like the arms
of anemones along your collarbone,
over each grove of your spine,
every angle of your coral skeleton
wrapped in skin.
You are not yet my lover,
but I can imagine clown fish
migrating between us,
pecking each freckle with
puckered lips. I can imagine them
pass from my navel to your neck,
a flick of a fin. A skittering
of nervous trust.
You are the reef, the endless
nautilus shell spiral, the sand
caught in every crevasse,
the gray armor of a spiny lobster
guarding its den, a silver flash
of scale against clear blue,
a beam of light that never
quite reaches my feet.
I am the entirety of the ocean,
ready to fold you into myself.
Victoria-Lynn is a student attending Central Connecticut State University. She is editor-in-chief of The Helix, an undergraduate literary and art magazine. Her work has appeared in Cleaver Magazine.