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Poet: Mikki Aronoff

Who knew
a knob could lay a necklace
of eggs, anchor love against loss. That whelk’s
a frill, like lettuce or lattice, a tongue tied
to a marriage
of rasp & rhythmic submission
stoked by the muscle & juice of oysters & clams
pried open along the shell’s sharp edge.

The collector
shunts her from sand flat to sun
scraps her rubbery brawn
never mind two parts make a whole
never mind some loggerhead turtle’s missing
his Sunday chowder.

Busycon carica
he coos, strokes & buffs
case & vacancy — now a creamer.
Intimates will covet her ridges & ruffles
hint at a gift.

After high tea, on a shelf she sits with a dried puffer fish —
a bubble blowing a perpetual kiss.

Mikki Aronoff’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, London Reader, SurVision, Rogue Agent Journal, Popshot Quarterly, South Shore Review, The Fortnightly Review, Gentian Journal, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, and elsewhere. A two-time Pushcart nominee, she is also involved in animal advocacy.

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