Clare

The seaweed on the beach
looks like neurons
maybe meant to
connect Clare's spine
with her hand
so that she could have squeezed
a hand of mine.

The guts from the sea
are lying around.
Some parts look like bones,
broken knees.
This beach,
a cemetry
full of body parts
not buried.

Seaweed and a shell entwined
get stuck in my toes.
I'll take the shell home
and call it Clare.
I'll fill it up
year after year
with birthdays and chocolate cake
graduation, the first car
and holidays at the beach.