Perihelion & Aphelion

I palm the conch shell
to give you the Atlantic.
A dry star with song.
Our huddle around it
is perihelion, then
aphelion. Cold breaths
fog into quick foxes.

What I give you is silence.
What is the cluster
of non-verbs
for the duration
of my refusal
to put my body
in water
after he drowned?

Essence. Ruins.
Rarefied air.
the sound of shells

Which is absolutely fine.
Frantic, sleek animals
resolutely survive
in spite of

the world moving on.
Do you hear it now,
the complete retelling
of the history of salt?

Somewhere in the story
there is permanence,
and somewhere in us
there is change.


Published in Ink In Thirds.


Jihad Jihadi Jihadist