Archive for June 17th, 2022

Friday, 17 June 2022

Glass Midden by Joanne M. Clarkson

I head into wind, combing
rock beds, glass in my hands.
This stretch of beach is kitchen
to forgotten porcelain, shatter
of beverage and clockface.

Everything but bone has fallen
from the cliffs above, a hundred
years past the county’s cast-off
acre. I stumble over car
parts and fuses, wood long sailed
or splintered into moon-salt.

I glance over my shoulder, stalked
by a sense of trespass. What do I need
with trinkets of smoothed blue,
rootbeer, fragment of flower
from a chipped rim? And a century
from today, who will finger

what held my wine, my wild bouquet
of pussy-willow, jar gone to pieces
through carelessness, anger or simply
replacement? Nothing is buried
forever, unearthed and re-imagined
into hand-hewn jewelry or the mosaic
of a frame. My small purse is almost

full. The tide is about to turn. Tonight’s
waves re-claim a dowry. I wonder
if she wept when her children’s
children gave her plates away?


Date: 2021

By: Joanne M. Clarkson (19??- )