Eelgrass

Naomi Feigelson Chase ’54

The tide inches in,

Narrows beach to a wrinkle,

Teaching me what small is.

Anonymous, I'm trite as a crab

The sea washes up, junked

On summer’s careless porch.

Like me, the sand won't be settled,

Spurns the brush,

Fish in this pocket,

Oysters in cold storage,

Hibernating,

Just so, just there.

I worry my life, moving

Files from house to house,

Culling history, like terns

Cracking shells, culling flesh.

Then I cupboard my shoes,

Go down to the water,

Let my feet out.