The Wild

Torn, I have my mother's bones
to remember the knaved shallow
made by the shells gathered
in our nets. The nets
were wived, woven
from a husband's shed skin.

{ } To them, we gave
the inside gleam the cat's
licked clean, the shinned
rope twirled by tongues.
Hived city under
the coved combs, the fish
who gave our hems
their glimmer -- these teething
shovels, without hands.