She once was sand, her body a swirling phantom. Her old haunt, the gaping maw of a ship.

Harvested on a Tuesday, melted on a Wednesday, molded on a Thursday. He made his perfect piece. Fragile, transparent—no hidden crevices.

He gripped too hard. Shattered, she took blood as reparation.

Helen Curran is a University of Cincinnati student with published poetry in East Fork: A Journal of the Arts. She thinks dogs are cute and sometimes she’s not lazy, actually sitting down to write (rare).