Dishes are stacking in the sink,

and low tide feels broader now.

Stitching across the shoreline,

the waves don’t rumble the way

they used to

                     when I slept in the front room

of the stilted house, yellow quilt, sunscreen

sheets, drawers that smelled like Easter.

In the mornings Mimi knocked

on our shared wall and I knocked back.

Sand pooling in the shower drain,

I lost a wine glass, a good one, yesterday

to the crashing layer

                                  cake of bowls

and spoons and serrated knives.

When I collected shells for Mimi

they were thin, black mica she called jingles—

a broken tambourine when I cupped my hands.

Black shells only, no silver fish

variety, no caramelized mussel valves

hiding as mica, and the water rose

higher then, to the boardwalk.

I wish I’d carried the mussels back too,

recycled them in the ruffle of my bathing suit,

and what good spoons they’d make:

catching light in the sink, their abalone insides

reflecting in my cereal.