pm poetry

When I was six,
I received a gift
I’d never
quite forget-

A necklace,
shimmering
and delicate,
an empty cage
strung through
the chain-
containing
airy promise.

And with
this necklace
came a box,
wrapped in
paper beryl.

Inside this box,
an oyster
perched-
sea-plucked and
imperilled.

I pried its shell
with forceful care
to spur reluctant
blooming-
and when it cracked,
the sea rushed back-
salty tides
still fuming.

There, between
its blossomed
slivers,
a thimble moon
swam through
viscous
silver.

That moon
would rest
upon my chest
so long I
don’t remember-

I just know
its weight
like a signature
pressed against
my collar.

This memory
of pressure
forms a
pearly center-
a thimble
recollection
swimming
through
gray matter.