Secret of the Seashells


Certainly those thoughts,
they must go somewhere.

Sometimes I imagine myself
riding on their cusps,
escaping first from your mind
falling through your curved hips
down your legs,
until we drift out from under
your feet, I land
gently on a bed of sandy
emptiness, I find your personality
amongst the grains, bottled up,
hidden in the hum of seashells,
sailing off into breezes,
you are a dot in an ocean of
blank stares and empty eyes.

I walk along the shore.
I walk through the bare thickness
that holds your memory prisoner,
and call your name,
only to get no reply,
perhaps the silence I often
hear is my safest response.

You are not my mother,
certainly not the breath
that conforted me
as a lost child finding
herself in a room.

You are not my mother,
certainly not the touch
that eased my fears
as I battled the monsters
lurking under my bed.

In terms of wishes,
mine is so simple,
to unwrap you,
to uncover you,
bump into you while
walking barefoot through
the bed of shells, I would ask
your memory, why the dissapearance,
what did I do, what can be done,
for one day,
of you,
to remind your memory,
introduce myself,
force you to see
that I am your daughter,
and of no less importance
than the secret lulls you
hear as you find your answers,
in seashells.

Copyright © 1996 Lisa
Used with permission of the Author

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