Or maybe it’s more like this: a nondescript palm joins another. The fingers are warm—they touch. The palms belong to one person. The palms are covered in broken fragments of something. They bleed. “They” is an intentionally vague referent. And, as you peek into the red gaps, you finally see the white hello of bone. This is the inside of the shell you hold close to your ear now after stepping on its sand-covered points then. After washing your blood away in the saltwater, after wincing when you feel the ocean’s quick sting, after deciding to steal the very thing that made you feel pain because you think you can make them love you even though you know that’s just you lying to yourself again, after washing the grit off its pink underbelly so that you feel safe holding its fragile body up to your own. This is when you take the breath you would’ve taken anyway only now you’re actually listening for it. This is the inner layer. This is what I’m trying to say.
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Court Ludwick is a writer, artist, and educator currently pursuing her PhD in Literature and Creative Writing. She is the author of These Strange Bodies (ELJ Editions) and the founding editor-in-chief of Broken Antler Magazine. Her work has appeared in EPOCH, Denver Quarterly, West Trade Review, Oxford Magazine, and elsewhere. Find her on socials @courtludwick. Find more of her work at www.courtlud.com.
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