Maybe I’m the opposite of a vampire,
looking to find my own blue of remembered sky.
A starfish shadow,
dinged a time or two from unspeakable dangers,
the golden waves that ripple when my balance is disturbed.
I am not embarrassed that I know no other—
it’s a beautiful word and how long is the wait?
There is that about old souls and granite rocks,
they both wordlessly observe and silently speak their peace.
A treasure or a burden?
Hope and I, we don’t run too much together.
Such a difficult object to admire and hold.
The inner shell smooths into golden honey orange
and whispers wisdom from its tightening curves.
I see its inner workings, an onion gone rogue,
like a conscience almost.
(You fool me with your curves.)
I have not used what my mother gave me.
She stood at the counter in house coat and slippers,
49 cent sifter in hand,
rusty now with disuse.
Metal whirring against metal—shh, shh, shh…
I will hide one more memory among them
(There is nothing so blue as memory) —
the smooth shell memory of my daughter’s hand in mine.
Stop and breathe a moment of beauty.
It is so much easier to lose a thing than to find yourself again

Cento from a workshop with the Cincinnati Book Arts Society