Death | A Sonnet: Conch
The conch’s pink carapace sighs salt water
and memories: the trickle of a spring,
unruly sprays of standpipes flickering,
a cat-eyed marble’s gold-amber glitter;
small rainbows in a restless August sky.
The way we were: hand in warm hand, summer
rain beading from your dark architecture,
youthful, supple; your voice bassing for miles
reaching Venezuela’s faraway shores –
your desire to leave this life as deep
And one day, you woke from sleep
spilled into the tide as foam & particles
of light. Now, you are the conch’s canticle;
its lips cradling the seasons, my heart, yours.
* Names and some identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.