Washed up on the dresser
with the
crater of a sea urchin’s shell
finger-long augers, sandblasted spires
and snail shells with ruffled inner edges.
Feels the rough ridge of a conch
Fingertip exploring
tender
whispering in a lover’s ear.
It’s said that a shell holds the sound of waves
throws back the echoes of blood.
What can’t be heard.
That paper-white shell in her hand
writing waves onto her palm.
