We walk the shoreline|
of the Ohio not touching
so nothing keeps
winter from numbing
our fingers. I stop
to watch the dead things
float by—a hollowed
log bobbing the current,
the pale glisten of a fish
belly, an accompanying stink.
The crests push to comb
the edges for more debris,
lapping at the toes
of our shoes, where they sink
in mud and squelch when we lift
them up. You tell me
we’ve been here too long
and move on. Birds call
to one another, scavenge
what they can from the shallows.
Empty mussel shells lie
shine-down, half-buried to hide
the broken parts—their insides,
pearl white, pretty, and barren.
