The stars over the Atlantic are danglingsalt crystals. The room at the Seashell Inn is$20 a night; special winter off-season rate.No one else here but us and the night clerk,five floors below, alone with his cherishedstack of Spiderman. My lips are red snailsin a primal search for every constellationhiding in the sky of your body. My handwaits for permission, for my life to agreeto be changed, forever. Can Captain NightClerk hear my fingers tambourining youthere on the moon? Won’t he soon climbthe stairs and bam! on the hood of this car?You are a woman with film reels for eyes.Years of long talking have brought us to theland of the body. Our skin is one endlessprayer bead of brown. If my hand ever lands,I will fly past dreaming Australian Aborigines.The old claw hammer and monkey wrenchthat flew at Brenda Jones will fly across theyard of ocean at me. A grease rag will bethrust into my painter’s pants against mywill. I will never be able to wash or peelany of this away. Before the night is oversomeone I do not know will want the keysto my ’55 silver Thunderbird. He will chaseme down the street. A gaggle of spookedhens will fly up in my grandmother’s yard,never to lay another egg, just as I am jump-ed, kneed, pulled finally to the high groundof sweet clover.
From The Aureole by Nicky Finney