What is the sea urchin
in your throat and what depths
does it come from? Green or purple,
they somehow eat kelp, sometimes
getting caught in low water,
sitting ducks for someone else’s
discomfort. While waiting for the tide
to return, birds crack open
molluscs, crabs, sea stars, feast
on the helpless insides.
A surprising number of things
hate being touched, would rather grow
defenses twice their actual weight.
Inside the mass of spines, perhaps
a word, maybe a name, its prickly carapace
a battle between what you want
and what you would never say.
Note: I realise that I run the risk of expending more space and time on apologies for hiatuses than on actual poetry.