What You Did Not See

The subject was the shell,
intrinsic in a life carved ancient.
You couldn't see the beauty,
the gaping jaw bone,
a skeltal masterpiece
swirled
in a sea of Plesiosaurs.

Only a shell, you said,
a husk of imagination.

Blanched, a frozen hinge at one end,
toothless like a hand puppet.

You knew I ate the salted meat
careful not to disturb its body.
I could paint eyes, nostrils,
and a green body with flippers.
You would still only see the pistachio.

Originally published in Samsara.

 

 

Summer of 1966

It didn't know the consequences
of running with a fast crowd
It's beauty flourished
wings opened
splayed markings
of the yellow swallowtail,
vibrant like a summer finch,
arching its stuck belly
of guts
to the road
writhing anguish.

Small round faces
extruded like playdoh
smooshed against, a nose-smudged
window of a '54 Chevy
mohair seats alive with itch
they watched the flip-flop
until an 18 wheeler squashed it
for good
or for worse.