corpus christi, early march
dusty instant
coffee greets us
on a cloudy
coastal morning. this gulf
smells sour after heavy rain.
i grew up collecting
shells from a foamy
shore further east—so we do it
together. after carefully picking
those speckled things, we
only keep the ones
that are whole. you
humor the child
i once was; that child
who wanted to create a world
made of shells. i press
my lips repeatedly
against the unfreckled
patch of skin
on your right shoulder.
you are warm, milky
soft. fresh cream at sunrise.
later, we forget
the shells in the cupholder
of the golfcart you
rented. i don’t tell
you. it makes
no difference. instead of
napping, we make
love in oblique
shadows that twist
with the waning light
of the bedroom. i ask
if you want children. you
say, if the time is ever right,
maybe. i say, if it could
leave me whole.
About the Author: Madison Isbell is a poet from Alabama, currently residing in Austin, Texas. She is a MFA student at Texas State University, working towards a degree in Creative Writing. She loves sensation, being in water, and chewing up the world in bite-sized pieces.
Image Credit: Russell Lee “Two million dollar seawall now being completed at Corpus Christi, Texas” Public domain image courtesy of The Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 