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A SPOON WASHES ASHORE BECAUSE IT HAS NOWHERE ELSE TO
GO
That gorge of the neck,
that bay carved into the back.
Lying on the ground where the dirt was
silver and the sand jabbed the skin hiding
under fingernails. I dug around in
shards of pulverized rock. Sculpting dampened
mounds with motes that filled these pregnant
canyons. Overwhelmed them until
salty passions surged and
leveled everything off. I started fresh each
time. Red plastic shovel to the side.
My fist a fine substitute, some Paleolithic tribute.
It was there I first saw you, my
exhibitionist child. Boot soles,
grocery bag scraps and Coca-Cola bottles with treasure
maps all dry discoveries after your arrival.
Dimpled and shallow at the throat.
Smooth glass, but without the burden of
transparency. Rather—shiny.
No more pretense than any ten-year-old
beachcombing as the babysitter forgets
all that’s beyond her platter of pina coladas.
That rum/pineapple fusion, duties smudged
around the edges until everything became effortless.
You teased. Tormented.
Created my water-damaged self portrait.
Warped and with that—give—a thin
layer of steel molded and washed up
amongst the topographical clam shells
and the prima ballerina lumps of driftwood.
My orphan, my Hardy Boys adventure to fill a
forgettable afternoon. You came to me and
had no business being there, but I couldn’t
turn you away. No. You were seawater,
and I a pulse at the throat, and those hours always
lingered like tar on the bottom of my foot.
- Rachel Moran
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