I am not a living fossil – our bodies
rarely last past the first swash
of sun, rot, seal jowls.
400 million years of relative
boredom, swimming round circles
in our heads, catching falling morsels
of light in our empty eyes.
400 million years of relative
perfection. And now
you want to snip the rivers that spill my heart
of blue, to clean
of brain and stomach the empty shell, to sanitize
it with chemicals (the same ones in toy trucks
that glue your children’s eyes shut)
and sell that shell to other bright-eyed people –
their eyelids, also, closed
to 400 million years –
Inconsequential as a fingernail to me,
special as a 1777 bottle of wine to you.
Funny how that goes
From a time before language
language will keep me (after your hands slip and crack),
crippling the sea
of syntax
like a bridal gown the day
after, spent and
useless.
*** Please (re)read Sir Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.’s poem “The Chambered Nautilus”; It is much better than mine: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44379
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19711
By © Hans Hillewaert, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4657582