To go to my happy place
means trespassing across sea glass
beds I will never possess.
Land possesses me. Land that leans
over water—fresh and salt. Land that shifts
from hot to cold and repeat. Land
that reveals itself through fractured narratives
and images to prove and dispute
who got here first. I didn’t get anywhere first.
No more own my happy place than a hermit
crab pays rent to reside in a hand-blown glass
shell or one that glows in the dark.
Their housing crisis is ours.
The crustaceans got here first.