A Small Treasure
She said each stone has a face.
I walked while even in that sand
she was dancing, finding the agates
and the sea glass, the perfectly worn
bits of shell. Later, along the promenade,
a bumblebee soft-toiling on a thistle
stunned her. She imagined
we must all return to the shore
those small treasures we’ve beachcombed
throughout our lives.
The view from our bed in the hotel suite was spectacular. She yoga posed in cobra, nude, framed by sunset reflecting off the ocean, the sliding glass door to the balcony a jeweler’s loupe bearing light into the room. The waves crashed against her legs, her arched back.
Give me your gregarious towns, your salted parking lot scraps, your Urbanized regurgitations. Give me your one-legged, broken-winged Landfill morsel. Let me study your midden, so I can take a long Look down grief’s windy throat.
Jesus Christ! Like nothing and Everything all at once, you hold the dark sunshine. Let me catch my breath, and yours too, since Luminous and dead as you are, I’ve nearly mistaken You for a fat agate. For obvious reasons, I can’t put you In my pocket with the sea glass and Stones. But because you woke me, you’ll get a new Home, in the sandy pocket of this poem.
Ryan Scariano is the author of two poetry collections: Not Your Happy Dance (Finishing Line Press) and Smithereens (Imperfect Press). Some of his recent poetry has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, basalt, Rock & Sling, Phantom Drift, The Oklahoma Review, and SOFTBLOW. He lives in La Grande, OR, and works at Eastern Oregon University, where he directs academic support services and teaches in the First Year Experience program. www.ryanscariano.com