I'm sifting in the sand:
Ma said there’d be seashells.
All I have to do is simple,
that’s what I’m told.
Cute swimsuit…
check.
A bucket to collect them
when they inevitably wash ashore…
check.
And most importantly,
conviction!
I’ve definitely got that,
I'm all set.
But when the sun begins
to descend into slumber,
and dyes the sky
with its last breath of sunshine,
I stand staring at the coast and wonder—
why didn’t I get any?
I did everything right.
I sit with a smile on my lips, my brother—Abu—
beside me as the kettle begins to sing.
Moomins fill the screen, hattifatteners too.
The TV light painting over my blue.
I’ve had pomegranates twice in my 17 years.
Each time, I was awed at how
something with such a mysterious foreign air
could hold so many intricate bursts of joy.
All I’ve got is the shell:
Ma had lots of heels she’d promised to give me.
Stilettos, kitten heels, and a daring red.
Scuffed and worn,
yet donned like designer.
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