SHE KNOWS THE NAMES OF SHELLS
Now that she lives on Sanibel Island,
my sister teaches me the shells.
Along the tideline, she picks up one,
a kitten’s paw—
shows me its ribs like toe bones.
Calico scallop, baby’s ear, pear whelk.
She bends for broken
bits too, keeps them for their color
and pattern, the pocked and sea-battered
slipped into pant pockets.
What makes us hold on to beauty,
the pink swirls and green veins? Collections
lined on a tray like Eileen’s
—one perfect sample of each.
The rest, she glues to painted canvas—
coral, nine-armed starfish, seagrape leaves
brushed with pearlized white, as if still lit
by the lamp of sun.
I try hard not to bring shells home.
I don’t need even one more
memory in a Haviland bowl.
Eileen and I know how to hold
this time even when we’re a state apart.
Heads lowered in “the Sanibel stoop,”
we walk, reminding ourselves
to look up. At cloud swirls, the vein of horizon.
Terns and the rare skimmers lift before us,
follow the south-curving shore.
We turn north,
scan the slanted lines of sea grass
for our path home, where beach becomes
dune becomes land.
Karen Paul Holmes has two poetry collections, No Such Thing As Distance (Terrapin Books, January, 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich Press, 2014). Other publications include Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Crab Orchard Review, diode, and Poet Lore.