An archipelago between seasons,
I've learned the vernacular of clams
and gulls but fish remain inaudible.
In the salty sweet morning smear
of the coast, I wake the sand.
Dog prints in beach dust.

Pollution, natural and manmade,
clogs my toes.
Through cold pools, still sleepy,
I slink then wade.
Scaring baby rays that look like brown spades,
I scream then laugh.

The tide ruffles the pink surface of saltwater,
sparks gold, a sun winking.
My nipples squeeze when wet.
Armpits drink bobbing soda,
and I remember that I can't swim.
The lemon sun pokes my face some more
but my toes turn, gripping shore.

To be an island.

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