Crimson light drew me into
a cubby and its small tank
where bamboo shark eggs
shaped like snow pea pods
floated upright, tethered with
string. Under this clutch,
another egg, a jewel set in
four prongs on the tank’s
floor, half its shell peeled
away, covered by clear
membrane, a pup, barely
a curve from tail to fins,
crowded against a white
yolk, ricocheted against
the seams, its underbelly
pulsed an urgent beat
writhing, struggling,
growing, transforming.
—
Sherilyn Lee’s writing has published in Brevity, Common Ground Review, The Rockhurst Review, Emerge Literary Press, and Nonwhite and Woman: 131 Micro Essays on Being in the World, an anthology from Woodhall Press. She has been a Juried Poet for the Houston Poetry Fest, awarded the Westmoreland Poetry Prize, and a residency at Dorland Mountain Arts. She lives in Southern California.
