Video posted 4.23.21 on Facebook
A Field Guide to the Shells
Sweet pink mollusk,
you were born soft
and squalling, already
dissatisfied.
How small but how certain,
how eager. Early,
you learned:
daughters don’t leave.
You built your own spine,
lined it with pages,
took cover,
became Ramona,
became Nancy,
became Sally J. Friedman
as herself.
Even now, you silence siren,
shush call of conch from
distant shore, ignore
waves lapping against
doors. Instead, you
become cowrie,
lips curling inward,
murmuring
someday.
Sweet pink mollusk,
you were born soft
and squalling, already
dissatisfied.
How small but how certain,
how eager. Early,
you learned:
daughters don’t leave.
You built your own spine,
lined it with pages,
took cover,
became Ramona,
became Nancy,
became Sally J. Friedman
as herself.
Even now, you silence siren,
shush call of conch from
distant shore, ignore
waves lapping against
doors. Instead, you
become cowrie,
lips curling inward,
murmuring
someday.
We Set Our Own Bait
We have worshipped
at shrines
of too much and
right now but
never enough,
not fast enough.
We have lived
in a cage of marks,
invisible tally
of shoulds vs. dids,
pencil-pointed
punishment.
We have loved
the sound of springs
we set ourselves
so well, we never
heard the snap
of the trap.
We have worshipped
at shrines
of too much and
right now but
never enough,
not fast enough.
We have lived
in a cage of marks,
invisible tally
of shoulds vs. dids,
pencil-pointed
punishment.
We have loved
the sound of springs
we set ourselves
so well, we never
heard the snap
of the trap.