SAND DOLLAR/ JP REESE
Washed ashore, I am the coin
of mermaids in your palm.
Your eyes see only treasure,
not the measure of my end.
The sand moves, sculpted by wind.
Endings clarify, chasten.
Lifted from a suitcase, I am the memory
of sun slashed across a cheekbone,
wind-ruffled sea grass, the curl of foam
that spumes above green waves;
bonfires that sear the night sky,
a kiss from one whose footprints
disappeared beyond the dunes.
I am the arid bone of flowered stars.