Body Sonnet #13
Our beach finds fill the kitchen bowl:
split blue mussel, ark shell, oyster, whelk
stripped to its column. Tonight, the boys asleep
upstairs, we face each other at the table
and rattle shells in our hands. I can't see yours.
I hold the whelk and two bleached oyster chips.
I like their noise. I like knowing what's lived
inside. You say, We haven't talked for weeks.
You say I look too thin. I want to tell you
my child-ribs surprised me last night in the mirror.
I play my little shells, the meter
of the speech I want to make, the piano
for the singing in my head, the piano
with its bony, knowing hammers.