Like the fragmented seashells,
Conch, triton, key-hole limpet, wentletrap, nautilus, angel-winged chochina,
and the strobilaceous, ovoid navicular, pre-paleozoic chiton–
I am, too, fragmented.
As archaic newness springs a well inside this shell I call my own,
it spreads rapid-like through brittle shards of my broken bones.
Parietal, occipital, temporal thoughts elude me
as they commingle with the ilium, sacrum, coccyx, and pubis.
As more often than not,
my talus rests firmly between her mandible and maxillae,
and my phalanges scratch her cervical
(my other phalange, her other services).
How utterly clerical of a seaman, spit upon the ragged crevices of a Moscoe woman,
out for lunch on the ebb of the maelstrom.
My brothers hair turned white when he grew old.
Mine remains black. So I am told.
So I am. And I am,