Treehouse

Laura Kochman

I said, my feet slip from rock to rock. I said, I am found, founded, foundering. The sand grains sift through my foundations. It takes a grain to make a pearl, but I am no mother. Don’t laugh. I have no hidden chamber, no hiding place in the rocks. The oysters plant themselves for miles, the bed a clacking, a clattering of hooves. I said, the rotation has already begun. I said, to place a hoof into a bucket of salt. To limp through the house in the night. Sometimes my feet betray me, my turning, the soft frogs sinking down to the road surface they should not touch. I said, nautilus hoof. All right—I am not prehistoric. I abide by the rules. I said, my feet are sinking in their shells. I abide. The oysters shake in their bones. The oysters shudder in their beds.

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Laura Kochman, originally from New Jersey, is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama, where she’s also the poetry editor for Black Warrior Review. Her work is found or forthcoming in Copper Nickel, PANK, Jellyfish, The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts, alice blue review, and others.

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