The subject was the shell,
intrinsic in a life carved ancient.
You couldn't see the beauty,
the gaping jaw bone,
a skeletal masterpiece
swirled
in a sea of Plesiosaurs.

Only a shell, you said,
a husk of imagination.

Blanched, a frozen hinge at one end,
toothless like a hand puppet.

You knew I ate the salted meat
careful not to disturb its body.
I could paint eyes, nostrils,
and a green body with flippers.
You would still only see the pistachio.

01/15/2006