Butterfly shells are coquina clams.
Surrounded by family, coquina clams capture nutrients
from spilled sun on the ocean’s waves.
A coquina talks and everyone listens,
a coquina moves and everyone moves.
There is love inside the heart of a clam.
But when they die, the ocean gives their emptied bodies
to pretty girls.
The more beautiful the shell is,
the prettier the ocean thinks you are.
My family’s mollusk mythology,
started a routine beach hunt
between my sisters and I to find the most pleasing
clam.
However, the ocean did not decide
which shell was fairest. My dad did.
My older sister always found the prettiest ones,
my little sister and I would race for second.
Second pretty is the safest place.
You will never be first pretty,
so second is valuable.
Sometimes I wasn’t second pretty
because I chose a live shell.
I wedged my pink fingernails
into the palate of the clam,
kneading its mouth open
revealing mucusy insides.
Mucus means last,
mucus means dad called me disgusting,
Mucus is the heart.
no one is waiting for you
to return to them.
this was the secret that God
carved into the stone of my palms.
yet I love my people—
who trust me because they trust
the power of an ocean,
who care for me like a first born
wailing.
i read again the sculpted words and think
about the dreams i had each night—
that love is a full locust,
that truth whispers like wind,
that someone was waiting for me.
i pushed myself down the mountain,
feeling earthy toughness between my fingers.
And i came back to the Calf
of my expense.
the Calf set everyone free.
it twitches the gold hair of its body
and its luster is adored.
everyone kneels beside the calf
and the Calf sighs its language.
it speaks of forgiveness,
of what the heart wants
when it no longer hurts.
when i stood next to the Calf,
of course, i felt ashamed.
its golden mouth, its golden eyelids.
the Calf only knows how to be loved.
only knows the sounds of kindness
without the labour it takes to be thought of.
it has never felt forgotten.
but I know the ear hair that tingles when God says
there is divinity in losing.
And I slit the calf.
When you envision an apple, is it a clear picture of an apple?
or is it fuzzy, imperceptible. My apple is clear;
the fruit of togetherness
that you and I will never be alone.
When I think about it, yes, I would have accepted
the horse filled with people.
I want to believe I am wise enough
to hear breath inside a body that does not belong to me.
That I could not be fooled by something wrong.
That as long as I accept my own harm, it will come at my own cost.
I draw little moons around your navel
and listen to the celloed sound of your belly
when you ask me what I think of you.
It takes me three moons to know,
you are a good person and kind to me.
I give you the horse problem and you say no,
you would not take the horse.
But what if you know people are inside waiting?
How would I know that? I can’t see inside of it.
But you would be ready.
Why would I set myself up to fail?
I wait for you to say more because I want there to be.
There are times I pull the horse
through the gates. Times I bite
the apple I dream of.
I dreamt of you.
And since I cannot feed on what I cannot touch,
I grab your absence.
Marisa Vito is a queer, Filipinx poet from Southern California. They graduated from the University of California, San Diego with a degree in English Literature/Writing. Their writing has appeared in The Spectacle, Mixed Mag, Phyll Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, and Mantis: A Journal of Poetry, Criticism, and Translation. When not reading or writing, they enjoy video games, Vinyasa yoga, studying theory, and learning about niche topics. They are based in Brooklyn, NY.
