On Monk's Hill (To Be Loved) by stephanie ritzema

Could you and I drink saltwater

from empty oyster shells?

Would then we ascend to cleanliness

in the eyes of the local passers-by?

They would probably know,

better than us, with their ice creams

how to be beholden

unto another is to be turned into

something else entirely.

They know this because they watch the stones,

and have sipped from the very same

smooth pearl chalice

that braces both our parting lips.

They’ve seen the smoothness of the silt,

and the kiss of salt upon salt upon salt.

Each year they find the peeling sheath,

of the anguished, youthful sandsnake

and know,

that the crisped flesh has done little much more

than make way for tenderness below.

The hang-gliders glide swiftly on.