The Contest

To win a free mattress, lovers must sleep 
hidden and apart behind a wall to discern 
each other by the cadence of their breath. 
The swell and ebb of their torsos, cheeks marked 
by imprints of pillows, a faint whisper 
of one murmuring the name 
of a lost Mother. I, a shucked oyster, 
tasked with scouring my own shell. 
I sift through the cacophony, straining 
for subtlety in the air. When airborne, 
I mourn not being the ocean. I’ve often lived 
catching life as a pale shape moving 
through snow, leaving no footprints, 
no shadow. At water’s edge, I’ve sprouted gills. 
I know those who yearn for blooming meadows 
through the lens of graveyards. A sculptor confides 
each stone harbors an innate form it desires. 
Likewise, people take shape within dreams— 
what stone would consent to bear another’s name? 
What have I molded myself into? I’ve been loud 
then meek, listening to the dark aria of my lover’s 
limbs rubbing, humming in tall grass. 
I call out his name. We claim our spoils. 
Back home, on the newfound mattress, we lie 
on the cold floor, my graying hair falling 
around his face. I’ve scrubbed the stains 
of wine from the lips of lovers past. We leave 
the door open in the shower. We eat 
sweet clams out of a tin. I seek no prizes, no 
earthly inheritance.