The coastline
recedes like it’s gulping for air, I hear its distant agony. The sun God stretches down his arms to paint
my body gold and leaves me kissed in the pink pain of his hand. Will my tide return or was she caught somewhere
between the English Channel? I withdraw
my selfishness as the white tips of waves frolic towards dancing their bubbly
duets and tripping over one another in a foolish cascade. The solidarity of
this shore is all too familiar and the white footprint-less sand beach begs for
intruders; like this blanket, created not for a single but a pair and either
lover or friend would do to share in the unfamiliarity of this hour.
Ambivalent
palms finally choose their side—they lean far to the left. Poseidon lifts his head above the horizon and
calls out a siren warning. My jubilant
waves have turned aggressive—their smiles fade.
I feel an unwelcoming gaze from the blackening sky; it’s telling me to
run. I leave the blanket and what’s left
in this melted icebox. The ponderous
pace of my naked feet against this hot stone path leave me last in this race
and I am imprisoned under the pissing sky. Rain hits the tar and sizzles from the stinging
touch. Approaching trees welcome me with
provocative gestures and I take cover under the skirts of their leaves.
