Diana Khoi Nguyen

The spook uncurled

from the sea's marsupial tuck

so that it might learn on land

what cold glint moisture holds.

Her body returned its voice,

emptying out from the conch

leaving only an ant trail.

On the water’s ink

a sun flung its hoop, its rose,

violet rereturn.

Grit and foam

would never fuse in milk.

They only release wounds,

shut calligraphy.