In silence she collects shells
at a time like this. We never
want anything to grow.
My sister puts them gently. One after
one on the nightstand so they can listen to her sleep.
If only I could give something.
Her room in order -- not so dark:
this one I would love
to see and smell the salt that clings to their bodies,
hear in them the song I thought was dead and buried. That they are here for
the moment only to say: This was the sea. This is water from God.