In general, soft-shell clams can live for around a decade—
a small but necessary fact I learned this summer,
meaning I could thread each year of knowing her
up and around the ridges of a clam shell and fasten it
around her neck, where it would hang
a small and matte moon between her collarbones—
the handles of the first bike
I ever crashed into a street lamp, the grass streaking my knees my hands
green with envy and other clichés at her effortless glide,
still cutting wide loops across the asphalt while, for an instant,
I flew. Later I remember the weightlessness,
the roll of a wave beneath my back when
I float belly-up in the ocean, eyes closed to the water
and somewhere off to the side her warning
—here comes a big one!—
I like to wait until the last second to flip over
and meet the water head-first, limbs collapsing into
the wave’s unsteady breast to watch her dive under,
all splash and toothy grin.
