{ My mother strokes the sand
toward her with her palm, drawing
the story out, then levels it
back with the edge of her hand. }

{ All the while
a ghost crab, half-hidden
under a canopy of crisped
sargassum, so well-camouflaged }

{ it's just a blur of movement
has been sidling in and out
its tunnel, forming identical boulders
of damp sand to stack }

{ at the entrance,
a bulwark. the story
is a stone she collects
from the tideline of the past }

{ For years it's arrived
again and again, as if something
draws it back
to her mind, tumbles it }

{ back was turned, pulled
a myster snail off the glass
and dropped it into the vial
of water, snapping down }

{ the lid. When her father
saw it in her tank, he wrapped
her braid around his fist
and wrenched her off of her feet }

{ A new detail brightens
the memory's
aching chamber. He gave
her aquarium away }

{ When she loosens her first
to let fine sugar pour
through the hourglass
of her hand, the crab hunches, }

{ sinking the picks of its legs
in the sand. Its eye bulbs,
lusterless as if dipped in black wax,
fold inward in cringe. }

{ A mind works this way, in secret,
tirelessly shaping, excavating
a refuge for the tender self. A child
steals the power she longs to have. }

{ What's a snail's shell
but a coiled tunnel.
What's the tough door
but a body building no. }