Mother Pearl

Mom and I swim in swallowingWater that is not the ocean. The shuntMoves seasickness as soon as herFeet walk on sand. In most pearls,I see ghost smoke sailingThrough the luster. Mom goesFurther, I crack an opalIn my teeth. Stones of birthBreak between the smallest bonesI have. Treasure inside meBlinks, fashioned from the same skinMom and I share. NeedlesCarve angels into mini whiteGlobes, and we chain themTo ourselves, dancing ankle deepTwenty years apart. In June,We get a crumb stuck in our teethTo build a jewel around it.Mom holds all the oceanI can see the rockIn my chest. Her sinking bodyKeeps me where I am smallAnd plucky as a mollusk, chewingGranules. Mom makes meAgain, of her hands,Between her hands.