trudging slow past milder new york beachgoers,
you stooped in the sand to pick up a shell,
and i crouched with you.

you told me as a little girl you would fill buckets
with shells, and the next day they would “smell
halfway to kentucky”

you picked out a tiny shell for me,
and i tucked it away in my denim pocket

and today, i dont smell halfway to kentucky
but my nose is burnt pink from looking up
and smiling southward