darren places her inside
a shell, not big or smooth
not reflecting
beach in its mouth
but saw-toothed, sand creeping
skyward on one side
and seaweed tired of combing shore.
He put it so careful and deep in
his back pocket, she tasted
blue jeans and her graduation picture.
She wonders why there is
no blood or skin
in his uncut nails
proof that his tongue
hung lopsided.
Sometimes he takes out the shell
gives dina fresh air
to bottle the ocean stink that salts
the inner corner of eyes.
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