The shell we found, we found ourselves
admiring its spire, its swirling canal.
I held it, hoped it pointed toward
divine ends, the way pointing things move
past and beyond you. In my hand,
the shell was more than a compass,
and less than a map—our vacation
token, away from our daily lives.
In my hand, another hand stopped
time with its sacred presence,
its toothy lifespace. But in its hollow,
its maker had broken free, burst
from its calcite plate, to show
the ascending stair, the aortic surge
of living. In the lustrous eye,
I saw myself reflected, unprotected—
the way the maker must have felt
suddenly broken from home
into another strange, molar existence.
Jesse Breite’s recent poetry has appeared in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, River Heron Review, Tar River Poetry, and Rhino. His first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. Jesse teaches high school in Atlanta, Georgia, where he lives with his wife and two kids. More at jessebreite.com.