Our Collection
Our Collection
She died in a sea of wind-swept fury,
her arms spread wide to catch the waves, she
died with her cheek to the wind. Watch closely: the
ocean closed over her head, pushed her under, she opened
her eyes even wider to watch as the rage of
her life became muted by all of the weight
of the water.
She sank to the bottom, the sand drifting over her
ankles and holding her, heavy of course but no match for
the anger that sang in her belly. She
sank like a woman who’d followed instructions each
day of her life, like a woman who listened and
waited all day for permission to breathe, like a woman who
tucked her feet under the hem of her skirt when she
sat, like a woman who didn’t look twice at the
shoes in the window, the red ones with heels, no she
didn’t look twice, and she smiled when she wanted to
scream, and she kept herself small and she followed
the rules to the letter. The anger she ate made her
heavy, so heavy, and heavy she sank
to the bottom.
We found her there, weighted by sand, perfect-quiet,
eyes lifted to look at the darkness above her.
We came with our hands on our hearts, our
knives clenched in our teeth. When we cut
her chest open (our treasure, our treasure) she
blinked, as if tears stung her eyes but she still didn’t
stop us. We cut and we pulled and we
broke through her ribs and we found it, the
stone that was almost a heart. It was
cumbersome, rough in our hands and the
unshouted words of her life kept it cool but we knew,
oh we knew, and we took, it was ours for the
taking. We left her there, weighted, her ribs
full of water, the little white wandering crabs flooding over
our footprints to see if perhaps there was
shelter or food. Little fools, little crabs, seeking
places to hide when there’s treasure for
having if only you know how to take it (our
treasure, we took it, it’s ours).
We’ll bring it back home with us, to our collection
and there we will set it precise and
secure on a stone, and the hammer
will fall where it may and the stone will crack open
and there on the inside (so perfect, the inside) all shining with
bitten-back words, with impatience and temper — resentment
the brightest of all — bright our beauty, our treasure
to shelve and to look at, to polish and honor
our treasure, our treasure. A shame she will never
be able to see (she could never appreciate, not the way
we do, it’s better this way). Little crabs, they will
feed on her, live in her, then she will surely feel
useful and wanted again.
The shelves almost full, look how lovely. Such work
just to get them but worth all the effort, each one breaks so
differently, each one a beauty. So tiring to
harvest but oh, how they brighten the room. For tonight
we’ll enjoy them (exhausting to find them, important
to simply sit back and admire them, our passion, our
treasure, we earned this, our
treasure, it’s ours.) Tomorrow, another.
Tomorrow, another. Tomorrow,
another. Tomorrow.