My sister and I press our ears
against the opening of this

particular instant, polished
like the aperture of a fluted shell—

the kind my father held to my ear
when I was small, the lips

of a glossy, mottled cowrie
whispering back the sea’s roar.

I wait for something elemental:
an explanation of why

I’m here, why
our mother is shrinking

in this bed, disappearing
like a snail after a child snows

a handful of salt on its skin.
Each hour halts like a cough deep

inside the throat of time.
Days close like curtains,

like books slapped shut
before you know the end

of the story. Rain pours.
Then suddenly sun sings

in a half-empty glass
of water sitting startled

on the narrow bedside table.
By evening, a shaft of dim

light turns into prayer,
slanting on bare

knees across
the painted windowsill.

Published in Conestoga Zen Anthology from Conestoga Zen Press, edited and compiled by Rustin Larson, 2021