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.