When my grandmother died, three rings formed around my mom’s fingers. First, India, where the gold-leafed elephants and relatives were, kept calling. Second, at
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