Poetry

They slow

me down. I go

full speed until I see

what is atop a dry sandy

hill in Lowell Holly woods. That a hole

at Conaumet Point now open to sky? A mole

might have dug it, no, what is emerging, what a surprise –

eight tiny discs lumber from under the earth, their small size

destined by sex, determined by weather, hexed

for all female or male. Hello girl-sexed

snappers! One sister stills. I help

her to pond, piles of kelp

she tumbles o-

ver slow.