This shore of conch and mangrove,
Rain, our mother tongue,
Cast down as glyphs beaten into sand,
It requires the patience of egrets
The long glide of pelicans
To endure the loss of your hands
Weight of your body in the warm night
As clock light breathes against the ceiling
This weather of absence, so much moonlight
Contained by scars, delicate
Tracery of struggle, cartography of dreams, your words still summon to this shore,
Congregation of spoonbills gathered for tide
The shyness of alligators,
The call and response of owls,
A world not yet fallen into shadow
The plumage of night folds into palms,
It requires the roots of mangrove
To weather these waves, long fetch
Of sleepless absence,
Each day a shell curving upon itself
The sound of emptinessÂ
Coiled within my ear, the sand of loss
Pouring from my hands
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