Aging
From construction paper
layered in pipe cleaners,
uncooked noodles
and cotton balls;
to cardstock trimmed
for business cards,
in neat stacks
or sweaty palms;
to printer paper
taken from the office
for a pile of resumes
fed on home ink—
our shell grows thin.
Soon, I’ll be as flimsy
as onion-peel falling
from my fingers,
translucent as parchment
paper baking in the oven,
growing loose
in skin
and fucks to give.
Culinary science
sand-crumb constellations wash away in pearly tips
as sea lice leap on a bed of beached carrot-peel seaweed
stretched beside mushroom-slime kelp baking in LED sun—
sea foam blows like tumbleweeds across the frothy shoreline
which blubbery seals chase in their floppy gallops
while slippery fish slide down black holes
of hungry whale throats, teeth like tines,
but it’s the prehistoric, noodle-legged
jellyfish who keep all in line.
Felicia Clark is a literary fiction and creative memoir writer, poet, and author of her debut book AWAKE: Poetry for the Healing. Her work has also appeared in literary magazines, newspapers, blogs, and multi-authored books. Felicia lives as a nomad in a house on wheels with a home base in the heart of Wisconsin, where she was born and raised. Follow her at FeliciaClarkAuthor.com or @measurelifeinbookmarks.
Featured image in this post is, “Santa Monica sunset and ferris wheel” by Peer Lawther, licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
