moon harvest on morning tide

on briefly shorn shoreline, a new moon gives
its tide to abalone and urchin. you slip 
a dull knife between tenderness 
and rock, a gentle twist and it slips 
free. you place the spiral of shell into the palm
of your hand, the shock of flesh only a few
centimeters above the pearl of bone, and rock 
a honed knife into the exposure. the abalone grips 
your hand, as it is cut from its home, these
its final shudderings of life. 
you build it a story, thinking it clings 
to your warm flesh as though clinging 
to life. though these are movements 
independent of thought and desire, 
autonomic, dispassionate. you remember
her bare feet in the last nights 
of your shared bed, how weeks after 
she had severed her love from you, her feet 
would still seek out the warmth of your humming
legs, cradling in the canyon of your bent
knee. and you would think 
that maybe this language of her body was speaking 
for her heart, her tongue numbed 
by the languor of sleep. you knew then
but did not have the courage to believe, and you 
know now though still feel the bright cut 
of her cleaving; her motions 
were autonomic, her desires
for warmth, that of body, and did not 
lap at the shores of her heart. 
her heart, already shell, seeking 
for new tenderness.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is fog-sighs-into-the-bay.jpg

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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