Friday, June 13, 2008


Please press!

She is a seashell. Hard, beautiful, something to decorate the house,
perhaps the bathroom, make that room a theme, something that doesn’t exist,
but we will all pretend it does.
She is a seashell, smooth on the inside, hollowed out, nothing
there, expect the beauty of stark white, like a beautiful plate
without any nourishment.

She is a seashell with perfect imperfections, the ones no one seems to notice.
They run their fingers
over her, feeling each ridge under their prints, and
some use a fingernail to scratch down, hear and feel the sound
they make together: it’s not unpleasant,
but a sound you’d ask to be repeated in the name of knowing
what exactly it is, build a simile to name it.

She is seashell left on the beach.
A seashell someone would pause over, maybe
enough to crouch down on their haunches and look at.
Not beautiful enough to pick-up and wash off and
take home, but one that will hold a short memory,
shorter than a poem, one you won’t remember
in the car while you drive home, but will
remember the sand between your toes,
the rushing water, a few nameless left behind.


Anonymous said...

I love how the seashell is a she!
Ah, I feel like I should know what you are talking about,because i speak/think in such disjointed thoughts/sentences...sorry mosquito...I loooovvve blogging...crap another one!


I just love how you "guys" (hey there are those silly quotes) bring your laptops and type right into the blg, DAMN MOSQUITO,....AHHH!

Anonymous said...

Seriously now,

There is alot in your poem...(I was told once never to use the "word" alot, it's not really a word) I could think about it for hours. I love that! What does it mean when you say "something to decorate the house, perhaps a bathroom"...You call it a there a fifties housewife inuendo there??? Am I reading too much into it?

Oh, and the imperfections, like the fingerprints of the seashell....
I chose, I know.