Stacks of dusty newspapers

an omission of memories

like the broken shells

shoved under Mum’s mattress

next to her marbles in a chest.
Morsels of salt treasures

that thaw and crackle at midnight

when I long for the sea to knead our thighs

to the soundtrack of the ocean.
Before the estuary of youth,

we were always so close

to finding a shark’s tooth or ancient skull,

to unlocking the secrets

just beneath the surface.
Before your lungs were charred

and the sun revealed his appetite,

we were golden kids

freedom, in shades of brown

while warm bluebottles desiccated in the air.
Don’t shake off your boots

or hang your coat,

memory is a holiday at a glance

but captivates like a siren.
Clear out the bits of shore

and make space for the baby

only the closets remember

what’s locked in this room.