In a cedar box I find a handful of seashells from the trip we took after Charly ripped the foliage away and left the dry sand to fend for itself. You take what I offer you: lion’s paws. The center of a shark’s eye. Sedimentary rock. A drill whose name I cannot remember, though I tell you that it is an augur, and you think no less of me when it slices your finger bloody. You know: gifts have teeth. You know: your full pockets turn hot because offerings burn.

Bio: Jess Dimond