My mother is sad today, so
At Delaware Beach, 2021
I collect shells for her, these shore-
line shards with sea-smoothed
wounds for string, a tinkling mobile
of soprano trill to recall also baritone
shushing of waves, like a heartbeat
in-utero. Each hole shows the way
a soft bivalve succumbs to seagull,
shows every treasure carries a history
of loss. I wrap us in this iridescence,
pearly and palm-shaped, hidden in flinty
grey. I collect twelve to bead on turquoise string.
I promise I’ll make something beautiful
out of something discarded
this time, for her.
line shards with sea-smoothed
wounds for string, a tinkling mobile
of soprano trill to recall also baritone
shushing of waves, like a heartbeat
in-utero. Each hole shows the way
a soft bivalve succumbs to seagull,
shows every treasure carries a history
of loss. I wrap us in this iridescence,
pearly and palm-shaped, hidden in flinty
grey. I collect twelve to bead on turquoise string.
I promise I’ll make something beautiful
out of something discarded
this time, for her.
Alison Lubar teaches high school English by day and yoga by night. They are a queer, nonbinary femme of color whose life work (aside from wordsmithing) has evolved into bringing mindfulness practices, and sometimes even poetry, to young people. Their debut chapbook, Philosophers Know Nothing About Love, is out now with Thirty West Publishing (May 2022); you can find out more on Twitter @theoriginalison.
Art: The Shipwrecked Mormons at Great Salt Lake, oil on canvas, Rebecca Pyle
Originally published at the Rappahannock Review.
Originally published at the Rappahannock Review.