Conch Shell Girl By Sara Tantlinger

Marina said her name meant “from the sea,” and that’s why her blood sounded like the ocean. She told me she was a conch shell and pressed her mouth to my ear, asked me to listen to the whisper of waves that sloshed around inside of her, traveling from her tongue down into the deep blackness of her gut. The salty tang of her breath intrigued me, made my hands quiver in want to feel the sea spray. I had never been to the ocean before. When I tied her into a half-crescent shape, I used a net. She thrashed around like a caught fish, opened her mouth, and the sound of an angry ocean tried to free itself from the gurgling cave of her throat. It crashed into my heart like thunder and grew louder when my gut hook knife smoothly slid into her abdomen. I placed my ear to the gushing of her organs, felt the sea refresh my face, and tasted its coppery tang until the stormy noise of waves faded, leaving a calming silence in its place.

© 2014 Sara Tantlinger

Sara Tantlinger can often be found with a cup of tea, writing odd things at night. Her most recent poems have appeared in the art and literary magazine Eye Contact.

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