Back to the beach

by saracomito

sand angelsAs the days get shorter, I start thinking about going outside again. It’s been hot, hot, hot! One long rain event from as far back as I can remember. It’s a type of reverse hibernation. In the hot, wet summer, I don’t want to be outside. Well, I DO, but I have a hard time with the conditions. My friends up north have started teasing me with photos of apple picking excursions. I love fall! But I love fall in Southwest Florida for different reasons. I get to tease my friends with photos of the beach!

It was a muse for those surfer bands from the 60s, and it’s a muse for me. I wrote a poem about it that I shoved in a drawer for a while. Then it appeared in the most unlikely place – DOGZPLOT! A place I never thought my work would show up because, guess what? I don’t write flash fiction. Not yet, anyway. Not successfully. Maybe someday. Unlikely! But not as unlikely as my work being in DOGZPLOT. My pre-teen son has a better chance of being there! Oh wait, he already was, a few years ago. It was a (religious) classroom paper collage that Peter Schwartz took a liking to. My son isn’t allowed to read the content, but his picture graced the virtual pages of that fine institution of all things flash.

Then DOGZPLOT had a poetry issue. Unlikely! And my work wouldn’t have made the grade without the ruthless yet tender ministrations of Peter Schwartz. Love your editor, people! Even when s/he says something jarring. Me, I need to be shaken up a bit or I forget seasons happen. Or how to write a better poem.

I just got a used convertible. So let’s go to the beach!

In tidal relief

elixir of desiccation, seawater
frays the thin layers of lips offered prostrate to a jealous sun
like jellyfish spoiled to a soup on hot jetties

peeled off indelicately, raining down
as powdered glass out of quarreling beaks
the world slips under the waves

we ignore the loss: our green pedestal darkens
and the horizon curves dizzyingly
for our floating

berating as the fence
quakes with native urchins who scatter
in the practiced nightstick wave

let the sand cram no more infant folds,
crown my flimsy land-ankles in vagrant algae
grasp my knees with tendrils

bear up my webbings and lick my hollow ears
fill my caverns and make me
a tomb of fishes

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