old wooden dinghy

turned upside down 

half sunk into sand

like a mother turtle 

birthing—

            your cracked ribs 

            speak: 

            of weathered hands

            of buffeting winds 

            of battering ocean– 

seagulls use your 

scaly keel

as a sun warmed 

kitchen 

bar stool—

            space in the darkness 

            between sandy floor 

            and domed roof

            where a child 

            digging—

may disappear 

into something more 

than its parents

could ever 

imagine