journal-03/27/01

03/27/01

the water isn't clear.

and i remember watching you
rise out of nothing--
bright, and your radiation
doing something to work against
the brazen wind
snipping my ears in two
(like snap peas).

i feel the grit sneaking into my sneakers
with every step,
i smell the salty molecules--
amnesiac...

i forget everything before you,
i forget--
am i watching you or
is it the other way around?

i caress these ripples you've made
in shells, where creatures
made homes out of
simple,
beautiful
walls folded together like hands--
delicate,
most wash ashore in halves
or smaller pieces.

i wonder how something so functional
could possibly be so beautiful?
the layers-- onionskin
falling away, brittle,
abalone eroding in my fingers
with the sand--

i miss this place.
i have to imagine it now with my eyes closed
or i have to stare at these shells
i just dug out of my closet--
sand falls off of them now,
dirtying my hands, my bedspread
(i don't care.
if i can bring this place to me--
that's what i care about).

many of them are halves of sand dollars--
jaggedly broken
right down the middle,
and most of those are light gray--
what's interesting is the impressions--
tiny detailed indentations
made by a mysterious being,
marks carved by waters over time,
the cavities inside-- in places gaping,
in other places tightly shut--
this is a skeleton.

i was searching for a whole one--
an unbroken sand dollar,
one that might resemble the pendant
on my necklace--
the one i wear every day,
the one my grandmother gave me
after she'd worn it "for
long enough,"
the thing that reminds me of her.

everything does.
everything reminds me of her,
sometimes.

(sometimes, i wonder if i ever
knew her at all, or if i
only knew what she allowed me to know
and i perceived nothing further.

sometimes i wonder if i'm doing ok--
and i look at these shells and remember
that sunrise in maine,
and i know--)

i am ok.