mostly glistening pink
but lined with elephant brown
so the peachness of it caught her eye
split her stride right down its determined middle
she bent at the waist
spread her thumb and forefinger
turned it over and saw its sweet, fatal fracture
and thought it a thing better scooped softly between palms
it smelled like seaside
french fries and sandy towels
but something that once breathed
something that bled was layered invisibly underneath
she saw babies
swaddled in peachflesh gloss
somewhere in the eye of that shell storm
and she felt a name on the warmth of butterfly breath
(that shell was my baby
and the giving of it
was hers)
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