Before Aphrodite jiggled out of her scallop shell cocoon, she bathed. Soaking in prisms of mother of pearl, feeding on quick-fleeting salt crystals on the floor of her tub, rippling her liquid bridal chiffon with golden comb-teeth fingers.

High tide hides an island. Low tide uncloaks. The moon draws her hips forward and back, closer to the sky at sunset, then deeper in the ocean at dawn until it’s time once more to arch her back.

Petals whisper out of her navel, perfuming her island and its secret, folded into oyster blankets… her true name.