The new name settles in. A veil of teal falling.
A calving glacier. In New Haven
the ocean comes out of nowhere.
Waves relaid upon the shore’s stomach.
I ask him where seashells come from
and he does not make me
feel stupid and I love him so much
I want to throw my body to the sea.
We zillow all the houses we drive by, and I joke
that even if we can’t afford to live on
the coast, if we wait a couple of years
the coast will come to us. It isn’t funny
and the evening star stretches its arm
as it wakes to end the day.
If there isn’t a next life, I will make one.
I won’t let anyone who ruined this one in.
The shells on the coast are
bodiless, purple and red, and
we shouldn’t take one but we do.
I press it into his palm as
he pulls me in for a kiss
and the shore blushes with dusk. Amen
to the new name that asked me
to kneel. Amen to the ocean rising
to hold its palms to my lips, its offering
of salt water foaming down my chin.
Amen to the drive home where he pointed
suddenly, said woah look at that and
I genuinely didn’t know if he meant
the dead deer or the sunset, melting blue to night.
–
Taylor Franson-Thiel is the author of Bone Valley Hymnal (ELJ Editions 2025). She is a developmental and editorial coordinator for Poetry Daily, the Poetry Editor for phoebe, and the EIC of BRAWL. She can be found @TaylorFranson on Twitter, @taylorfthiel on Instagram, and @taylorfthiel.bsky.social on BlueSky.