What am I if I am not
a girl? The pulpy body
of a dead sea mollusk,
dissolving?
Am I crunchy?
The shell it left behind,
rotted in, shouldering
deception?
What if I am made
from other shells, who
were made from mother shells,
who were stepped on so often
that the gravity of their woman
bones collapsed in, made dust
of themselves
beneath
the boot of a man I have
never met but can feel
still in the tips of my hairs
anytime someone asks me
what I am?
Micaela Walley is a graduate from the University of South Alabama. Her work can be found in Oracle Fine Arts Review, Occulum, and ENTROPY. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend—Chunky, the cat.