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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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