This is where I keep my ocean—in a small grey drawer with a light-brown knob. Whelk, clam, scallop, mussel, snail. Smooth, striated, spiraling,
As if your grief was another potato to clean and peel— and not the volcanic lake stuck in your gut— a hole thousands of
i. I learn to quilt then forget. The half-done quilts pester me remind me that the point was my grandmother—the point was Livingston and