Seashell
for my brother

The day he died I heard you howl – a scream so hot and sharp
it pierced right through my skin, threading through muscle
to wrap itself tightly around my heart, a reminder that each beat
was a betrayal. I watched each of your heavy breaths rise up into a sky
we no longer understood and I told you there are no words for this pain,
that all the poets have tried. But that was lazy. A lie. There are words
that tear my throat raw, bring red waves of iron and salt to my tongue.
Listen: I didn’t realize till I was twenty that in order to find a seashell
in the sand, something living has to die. That doesn’t make it any easier.

 

 

About the Poet:
Kristen Zory King is a writer based in Washington DC. Some of her work can be found in The Trident, The Inn House Review, and Cactus Heart Press.

 

Photo by Cestina.

 

Poetry Breakfast accepts submissions of poetry and poetry related creative non-fiction year-round.  See our Submission Guidelines page for details on submitting your work.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter, Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.