Poetry from Jodi Andrews

Photo: Lurm

Converge

Inspired by There and Back by Skye Gilkerson

It’s all swirled inward like a snail shell,
debris from the Kármán line. Broken
pieces of teacups, a lone handle,
half the cup laid on its cracked
edge; plate shards lined up in a row,
pastel pink and blue bottoms exposed.
Bits placed gingerly side by side
like homesteads. A horse kick would scatter;
granite, quartz, slate, and basalt rocks
through the spiral, some smooth skipping
stones stacked like cake tiers; mirror
fragments moon the light on the ceiling,
blind. All of this braided with rusty keys,
screws, a green painted door hinge;
like the horizon, seagull feathers bow
at the edge of the curve. Pennies, puzzle
pieces, the skull of an owl, old apple
headphones lay in a sunray venus
like a clam. Small dead branches rest side
by side like the tibia and fibula. A baby
bottle nipple, part of a pipe, matchbox,
half a brick, acorn, pinecone, clothespin,
pencil: all of it leading to an intact
clamshell; these sharp and shattered
pieces lead to Aphrodite newborn.
The ocean’s tongue licked these jagged
edges; she mothered her litter, until it
was packed into paper towels and flown
stateside, piece by forgotten piece
arranged neighbors on the wood floor.

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Jodi Andrews has a chapbook The Shadow of Death, available from Finishing Line Press. She lives in South Dakota with her husband, and she teaches English at South Dakota State University.

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