Dedicated to the Revival and Promotion
of the Oral Tradition in Literature
Danna Botwick
This page is under construction.
If you can crack his shell,
he will die for you.
Opaque, obvious,
shimmering through the lines
of his smile.
I imagine my body pressed to his,
my skin imprinted with
cold, salty ridges
cut from angry waves
as they try to break his
indifference against the shore.
I am the beachcomber,
holding him in my curious palm,
turning him in sunlight and envy,
ashamed of my shell-less self,
embarrassed to be just tissue,
plasma, puddles of emotion that spread,
seeping into sand before I can gather them,
unable to pack them,
tight and secure.
My heart beats, pushes -- expels
my weakness into the tide,
even as liquid,
I cannot slide between his cracks.
8/99
Danna Jae Botwick
Karen Lumos <karen@cs.unlv.edu>