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  • Snail Shell on the Bay


    A swindling stupa

    with prison bars etched across

    the brink of its swirl.


    The tide left it on

    the spherules that form the

    bay, its shell deceitful


    of mucilage,

    caged in guck-green slew.

    Fountain of algae,


    I’m blinded by your

    convalescence: to see what a river’s

    impurities have made.


    A fantasy revolution,

    your mouthpiece of milky opalescence

    cuts light like the sharp


    frost-coated petal

    on a tulip at morning. A rainbow

    in your spire.




    Come around again.


    The lilacs slip into their whitewashed gowns tinged grey

    in soot from the hard-fought wind, in May they dash

    to the ball

                                        in their odor of ardor,


                come around again.

                                                    Let’s watch them shade the blossoms

                                                    side by side

                                        in the wind.

                The branches bend and buzz

                because it’s May and they have grown


    into their gowns, so mundane.

    Before the war ends, come around again,

    the lilac. The burgundy ground.





    About The Author

    Hallie Hayes

    Hallie is a poet and literary essayist writing from an old river town on the banks of the Mississippi. Torn between a love of travel and a deep-rooted longing for home, Hayes oscillates between the desire to be at once everywhere and nowhere. Recently returned from an organic farming internship in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley, Hayes channels her love of food and place into a passion for the endurance of the temporal world.