I have cloaked myself in spirals,
gathering grains of sand.
The deeper hues burn internally,
leaving the exterior
to bleach and stain with each turn.
In collusion with the currents
I yield, I peel.
With each unbidden exposure
I follow the water
to sift, to sort, to examine
the brittle ridges
of the outer lips of shells,
turn them over
and run
my padded finger
along the pearly sunburst
left inside.
I have funneled each change and intruder
through the wringer of my digestive juices,
adding their residue to the aggregate
I create to shield me.
The Moon Snail leads a ceaseless, ancient, predatory
life by rote. It is beautiful in death,
its browning spiral embedding in a cake of sandy shore,
surrounded by a calcified cemetery,
shells of those it’s killed and eaten.
This bitter salt we call consciousness
bears hypocrisy’s encrustation, admired
for its pattern,
its spiraling infinity,
its muted and vibrant colors.
The clasp of this cloak
is operculum:
the eyelid of a shell.
The brittle enclosure
lets in the light
beyond hypocrisy’s door,
it is a culmination
softer than the callous
The clasp of this cloak
is operculum:
the eyelid of a shell.
The brittle enclosure
lets in the light
beyond hypocrisy’s door,
it is a culmination
softer than the callous
calcium build-up
of a shell, where
the spiral meets the sea.
Jackie McClure
Jackie McClure writes poetry and fiction aiming to illuminate the commonplace in our shared landscapes. She has an M.F.A. from Goddard College and has published most recently in Humana Obscura, Penumbra, and Hellbender. She lives near the Salish Sea in Northwest Washington State. Her preferred state of being is swimming.