NaPoWriMo #6

Shy

 word mouth     mord-of-mouth     tell
it like it is
stars like fish uncoiling
distant tentacles
reaching the edge of blue
on a clear day
and recoiling in the green-brown
on the cloudy days.
I knew how to speak until March
when I rocked in my shell
pretending
I could walk without
stumbling
every time.
Could the next month extract my pearl
like the greed of Old White Men?
Like I am ten or seventeen
afraid to move
wrong
because the eyes will always see the E.
The rest is combusting in the sea.

© 2014 by Robin A. Sams

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