for Maria

Every shell is a syllable, a womb. These grooves,
this frail scalloped edge was a thought once.

For example, this cold spot on the bed is where
your thin blue skin came out. When you slept,

I dreamt a purplish membrane was sacked for a room
I couldn't see--too much anesthesia. Later I hooked

the pink rag rug you wanted, bought the Chinese
parasol. When the dream came a second time, I kept

the stain to prove it. Here is the tarnished silver
I retrieved, the photo album. See, it has

your fingerprints. I've saved these for years
so you'd believe me.


Melina Costello