There is glass enough in the ocean
That it hurts to swim
To skim my toes and soles
Across the bottom or
The silted submergence or
The sand that sticks and stays
The ragged edges open me like
The shell of a summer watermelon
Thick outside and tender crushable
Flesh hidden underneath watered
Down wet, the red still drips
And drips down my hands,
in either case both disturbingly
Sticky, both terribly red, and
Yet more pink, more diluted
Than I expected
She broke a bottle once and tossed
It further into the wake, shrugging
Saying I’m making seaglass
There is glass enough already
To be tumbled smooth and frosted
Tossed over and over by the sea
Salted and seasoned into perfection
It takes twenty to forty or
Two-hundred years to dull the edges
To something palatable and smooth
Enough to turn in a palm, to stroke
With a thumb, to be beautiful enough
That its only job is to catch sun
Mouse Moseley is a senior undergrad Writing and Literary Studies student at Delaware Valley University in Pennsylvania. She serves as the Editor for the DelVal literary journal, The Gleaner, between writing poetry and calling her representatives.