AT HIGBEE BEACH

 Michael Phillips

Your face registers the pleasant coarseness

of pulverized shells on tender soles

as you ask about the garland of sea foam

the frothing tide deposits at the water line.

You pluck a mussel and examine its smooth inner shell,

with shades of purple, black, and silver.

Your eyes demand answers of me.

You ask about a horseshoe crab,

mermaid’s case, and the half-exposed keel

of a foundered vessel beyond the breakers.

Some things I can answer and others I can’t.

You love the items best for which I have no names,

as if they’re your private orphans

in a cataloged world too teeming for comprehension.

You expand with each item you hold and marvel at.

Sometimes it hurts to see this swelling,

as if it widens the distance between us,

carrying you ever farther from my orbit

into one of your own design.

Michael Phillips has published short stories and poems in many literary journals, including Roanoke Review, The Potomac Review, and Philadelphia Stories. He has an MA in English and works as a medical editor for a nonprofit healthcare institute outside Philadelphia. He lives with his wife, daughter, and puppy in the Philly suburbs.