Prompt: talk about unusual seashells
when I go, I will send letters from the road.
the people I love deserve typewritten stories written
on my grandfather’s old Royal,
His name etched on the bottom.
Letters on his stationary,
And I will write confessions surrounded by Peruvian hat shells
in the ghost of an evaporated lake in some desert,
The whorls of tide pools with cataract blindness
from the whimsy and boredom of the moon.
To my rarae aves, my broken connections,
the strangers I am beginning to know,
to make the letters that started with;
‘we regret to inform you,‘ ‘we are sorry to say,’
‘you are not ideal,’ worth the haul.
To mend with hands that don’t know how to sew a button,
to preserve the meat inside,
lick the envelopes with a willing tongue.