When he
was in Ireland
he went down to the sea with his son
spoke of esoteric matters and computers
in the same sentence,
connecting the two subjects
with the saltiness on their skins,
the screech of seagulls
the glue of their closeness
they crouched down, beachcombing,
he of slim body, his son rotund,
and found five perfect seashells
complete, closed shut,
as though the original creatures
still resided inside
so that when he returned home
with these shells his only gift
for the woman he had left
to go on this trip
she shook them with concern,
peeked through their slits
to ascertain their emptiness,
that he had not robbed the sea
of a living thing
then placed the seashells on a shelf
where she was certain to see them each day
to wonder at their beauty
to remember the ache of his absence
to touch them if ever she should
doubt his love
