Sea Shells

She sells seashells, as they come with pleasure and despair.

She sells seashells, tossed by the waves some broken some survive.

The heave and tug of the moon wax and wane, slowing, tiresome.

Her womb distinctively her own; haunted by the reaping of harvest not yet ripe. The right of choice distinctively hers, mourning the decision. There is no talk of the aftermath, the broken seashell. Tossed by the waves, lost forever. Intertwined in the matrix of politics, her God(s). US out of my uterus, rolling through her mind like the tiny shells undulating on the shore. Somehow the soul is lost, set inside a paper cup. No ethics lives. Here to heal, love, warm, birth, re birth, she sells seashells by the sea shore.