Brooke Grasberger


I’ve never held a nautilus,
never felt its smooth spiral
slide against the unclear sketch
of my palm’s lines.

Perhaps its perfect ratios
are not meant for my hand,
with the middle finger swollen
at the joint, bent outwards
from when the leash was wrapped
too tight and the dog
tried to jump off the dock.

I’ll settle for periwinkles,
lady’s slippers which always
seem sun-scratched and faded,
even the occasional sand dollar
and, on the rarest days,

a sea urchin, spines unbroken,
that will rest on the car’s dashboard
until I remember to take it inside,
sea-scent bound so tightly
to the webbed hemisphere
of its shell that its patterns
seem like frozen currents.

Brooke Grasberger

is a recent college graduate who lives in Beirut, where she works as a freelance writer and editor.