This time it's as if I reach
inside a conch — sea
bone with a sounding

board within, like an ear
or horn

— reach for what pulls
the echo to itself,

for what clings
to home, for what climbed inside
what stays firm — as if

sun,
as if salt-tinged air,
as if I wear

summer and the flesh
I dig at
would do anything
but flinch when held

— as if I do not blame
and could love this lung-
stomach-heart-brain-anus,

as if I could feed you

Joellen Craft

(Reading by Lauren J. Moseley)

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