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by Judith Valente
Daylight chalks a thin white line across the horizon,
we wake to the mockingbird's cur-cur.
Later, the white throated thrum of a cicada's castanets.
Soon we will go to the sea,
build a house of flotsam for our desire.
If we toss our shelled memories from shore,
the sea returns them with a low moan rising,
still whole but changed now like the white sand
we shake from our sun-burnt feet entering the house
called Jesemy. The day runs on without commas, dashes.
We speak the language of silence.
White the sun, white the sea below it.
White the sheets. White my breasts beneath
your tanned hands. White the mind of the moon we wait for.
How else could I have told you the mystery:
white seeds stashed in the palm prints of morning?