See them at low tide,
scallop shells glittering on
a scallop-edged shore,
whittled by water
into curvy rows the shape
of waves that kiss the sand
only to erode it. Today
I walked that shoreline, humming,
Camino Santiago,
the road to St. James’s tomb,
where pilgrims traveled,
scallop badges on their capes,
and chanted prayers
for a miracle to cure
disease. And so I,
stirred by their purpose,
hunted for scallop shells
shaped like pleated fans,
with mouths that open and close
to steer them from predators.
I scooped up a fan
and blew off sand grains, thinking,
for that one moment,
of how Saint James’ body
rose from sea decked with scallops,
and of this empty beach
in another austere time.
Unholy pilgrim,
I implore the scallop shell,
silvery half-moon, save us.
Grace Schulman
Among her other honors are the Aiken Taylor Award for poetry, a Guggenheim Fellowship, the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Award, and five Pushcart Prizes. About her poems, Harold Bloom has written, "Grace Schulman has developed into one of the permanent poets of her generation." Schulman is former director of the Poetry Center, 92nd Street Y, 1974-84, and former poetry editor of The Nation, 1971-2006.
Also by Grace Schulman (see all)
- Scallop Shell - May 24, 2022
- Letter from Paul Celan - February 25, 2022
- Confessions of a Nun - February 25, 2022