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.