Digital photo, "Like a circle in a spiral," by Lindsey Morrison Grant
The Shell by Jessamyn Rains
“Come forth,” He says to the spirit shriveled and small, lost so deep
inside the shell that it seems the shell is all there is.
Cavernous, luminous, pearlescent and smooth,
opaque, it hides ripples of being, hides the languishing
Lazarus. Mud clings to my wings. Earth clings to my song.
I am wrapped in pages torn From the DSM
letters so large my name drowns in them. “Come forth,” he says, to the name–
the song– the wings–the languishing Lazarus–ripples of being–
the spirit shriveled and small– the spirit lost so deep inside
the shell that it seems the shell is all there is.