My first child collects snail shells
under a sun the color of the shirt
before the blood, rinsing them
like a priest washing his hands
before the miracle.
He raises each white shell
for me to admire. I wash my face
with his soft skin. The wetness
and the glow.
He is a pure guitar string
echoing in the shell of the hollow body
where someone lived once,
then left this beautiful thing.
Imagine the sound.
From Night With Drive-By Shooting Stars by Jim Daniels. Used by permission of the poet and New Issues Press. Copyright © 2002 by Jim Daniels.