Hermitage // Katarina Boudreaux
Shallow water rivers
between my toes
and I peer earth bound
to the sand.
I'm a grazer of shells --
discarded things
remarkable to my
collector's eye.
I stalk them slowly,
resolution a binding contract
to not miss a shell
worth keeping.
I'm a keeper of things.
Back bent, my eyes
mid-scan, I spy a
--stop sign
--floating bottle
--shoeless man
rolled tongue moving
quickly on five or maybe
four spider feet
away from the rude presence
of my nail and flesh
-- my jig and jaw never fit -
home a Mother Goose
tale riding jauntily on
its back and I bend closer
(my house a tail waving
tall, arms crossed resolutely
on knees for support)
and on inspection see a
small shell attached...
in tow...
crazy feet skedaddling
through a man-made bar
to catch and keep the
warmth of water with
someone - something -
to save or cherish or add
to the display case in
his hermit home.
I raise my hand to
a fellow curator.
I straighten, glance at
the gulls circling, circling
in their death-peck dance,
and consider how much
unnecessary weight this small,
foreign appendage adds,
and if a hermit really
cares for hermithood,
or if the lull of companionship
sings lullabies to him/her/it
as they sing to me...
I lie in empty shell
listening at night...
and dig one toe in the sand
considering if I could tow
someone in to safety in
full blown risk of capture,
or if my shell is too dear
for me to part with.
I'm a true hermit
in the end.
|
