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