In the shallows amongst the rocks
floating like a mucousy clot
rising & falling with the breath of the ocean
and with one big push
moving on to the next waving clump of seaweed
then the next
and the next…
Does it care that it is alone?
Flecks of starlight embedded in black
rough and crumbly, it leaves constellations on my hands.
I imagine ancient sisters
grinding it to use for adornment
because the desire for beauty is as old as Eve.
When this rock has outlived my descendants,
who will imagine me?
Perfectly clean, perfectly shaped
Perfectly snowy white with subtle peach blush
Outward perfection belies the twisted staircase reality of the life inside
--up, down, around, repeat—
Life going in circles
Like all of us.
All the others are worn smooth and gray and ovular
Not you – angular tan oddity
like a perfectly cut morsel of fudge
You don’t fit in –
I like it.