Buried With a Mouth Full of Pearls

Kyle Laws

She was 1950’s mink and he iron forged
along the riverfront, a daughter born
in a February of no wind sparked the rush
to the bay in the most bitter winter ever.

I never remember a ring on her hand,
not wanting to be held to his bellows.
No violet to be ravaged in the salt air,
but amethyst hortensia in thick leaves.

Her mother starched all the clothes
both daughters wore after the second
was delivered in a town with a name
that ended in Court House.

Police started keeping track after
the father vanished and a swing set
appeared in the front yard cemented
into sand blown from the beach.

Something was buried there besides
fish heads used to catch crabs prized
for their claws in hues of hydrangeas
in the dunes.