2019 Gold Winner, Poetry

in English, pteropod translates to

wing-foot,

sea snail,

sea butterfly.

too small to press against your ear

and listen for the sea, though

they are remnants of a past

where armor was not yet needed

only translucent skin and calcium-glass shells

leaving the ocean’s heart visible for admirers.

now,

in any language, she pleads

for a god that does not

crumble in our fires, choke on our ashes

because like any good mother, the ocean cannot carry

the smoky exhales of our mistakes

in her belly forever.

in chemistry, combustion implies

bright, spontaneous destruction

but no, there is a softer, quieter death

for the pteropods—

acid dissolving their homes, shells

cracked and cloudy as if the beach

was strewn with broken mirror shards

all the better to distort reality.

they have neither wings nor feet for escape—

instead,

are condemned to drift in perpetuity.

start there,

a fingertip on the pearly center of its shell

then trace the effects outwards:

to the fish, then seals, then whales

all linked in an unraveling web,

like a fisherman’s net.

There is no such thing

as a closed system in this world:

the same salt that swirls through the ocean

runs in our blood.

in French, seafood translates to

fruit of the sea:

imagine white napkins and silver knives

empty harvest and

barren orchards.

teach your diners that

rare does not mean valuable,

it means loss.

in each

generation of sand-footed children,

open their eyes and lift their voices

because these sea butterflies,

and oceans

and earth of ours

are not capable of metamorphosis

by themselves.