Its husk is peeling,
like varnish off a worn bench.
The conch gathered dust on a shelf
in the solarium of my grandparents’ house
until Grandpa’s heart stopped.
The conk is gathering dust, again,
as it sits on my radiator.
I never asked Grandma where it came from,
but I bet it was a beautiful beach.
Not this sterile white beach
that you see in a Club Med ad;
but one with stones and weeds.
Its husk is peeling,
like varnish off a worn bench;
and I can’t help running my fingers
over its sharp lip and then
chipping away the dry skin,
bit by bit.