Kevin Roy
THE LIGHTNING WHELK
Bone of a secret,
recovered from switch grass
and sea oats, and recognized
like a branch twisted
within my own body,
calcified and creamy.
Disfigured, scrubbed
by the sea into a gasp.
I see something once alive,
see spun houses and intricate casing,
rooms of mother memory.
My fingers spiral along
its fierce contortion.