Shell
by
astrid larson
Young
I split the water like my knees,
deep creek travel to my treasure;
a half-petal shell,
hard flower from under stone;
cool skin, irregular with sand and time.
I peel her layers with mine,
retina, pupil, cone;
a spiral mimicking life.
A sip from the center.
We wait.
Our one umbilical cord
connecting us
This pregnancy pushes outward
what we leave untranslated
like a shell
whispering its message.
I decipher her melodic language.
Fingers wrapped loosely around sand and time,
she says to me,
"Shells don't come from creeks."