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.


Hidee-ho 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!

Hidee-ho 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.