We Made Tripods of Elbow and Arms

Nancy Meyer

rested chins on our hands lying side by side

in the sand. The ocean slapped

green to the sky. Up and up the sea once bore us. 

We dwelled in skewwhiffs of driftwood. Purple

anemones rose in the lapping.  

Then we lay  wordless—footless under mounds of sand. 

The tide sucked away, foam lingered  then burst.

Like the blue-black clams, we grew shuttered, 

ridged by old arguments. Murmured sorries, the loss of

abalone. Even shells could  titillate, 

their nacre, their prism. I reveled in 

the pull, the prying, thrill of a knife-blade 

in your carapace, craving your salt, your

soft parts. 

Now I simply show you mine,

kiss your nape, lie with you 

again in the warm sand.

Don’t ask me how I opened.

BIO:

Nancy L. Meyer, she/her, is an intrepid cyclist from San Francisco. Her journal publications include: Laurel, Sugar House, Colorado Reviews, Tupelo Quarterly, Nebraska Poetry Society, and Halfway Down the Stairs. Nancy’s work has been included in nine anthologies and she is a recipient of the Hedgebrook Residency. Her full length collection, The Stoop and The Steeple, was released September 2024.