i’m in a hall way on hall street.
(i may not know that second part yet.)
angled light is coming in through the window;
we are bending over a large open chest,
digging through layers of shells:
strips of muted pinks, tans, lavenders, blues—
and so much white.
an old woman leans over us
and says: take as many as you want.
i dip my hand into the click–clack,
feel the swarm of calcifications:
light and thin and cool to the touch—
and so smooth.
i’m as timid as the tiniest shell.
what she must be thinking
as my hand sweeps through
the treasures like a wave;
how her edges must be shrinking.
i stand there for a long time, long after my sister
has scooped up her shells and moved on.
i don’t want to take them out of their home;
they’ve been so far removed already.
(i may not know that second part yet.)
how can she just give them away?
but there are so many.
how can i pick just
one?
i don’t remember the color,
but i can still feel that small sea
knot in my swinging hand
as i disembark down the stair
well—her serrated edges
pressing into my palm like a dime.
she is picked clean—
no sand left behind.
but she remembers.
