Not snail, exactly –

epithelial with a tensile foot

like a surfboard with nerves,

responsive as any insect

but wet, wet as reed beds,

sunk root feeding deeply in the dark.

Not mussel, either, nor quilled

but mother, a good mother

of pearl, pressed with an energy

that sets her edges to fact

each radial spoke

angled in relative truth

each fold into a further chamber

enfolding something of itself.

Here, beneath my finger like braille,

the clearest patterns

turning and returning

in my palm.