Light is pissed. The stars wrote yesterday
to say their coolness is now an iceball in the face.
The moon never asked for all the light from the sun,
she's fine on her own. Stop thanking the universe
publicly every time someone offers you a ride,
or a stranger pays for your coffee at Starbucks.
Open up a rock. Even a stone has insides,
maybe it's a cave, like a heart, so many paths.
Love? She's had it. Sistered too often with light,
splashed all over social media, she looks
like a prom dress made out of wax. Work
at life with the hush of a moth's wing.
Praise the world by living in it, give in secret
all you have to offer, even your wasp nest words.
--
This not-sonnet is not going to win me any friends. I may even lose a few.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Flip-Flop Handsoaps, Puzzles, and Stretches of Sand
Ah, the fascinating boredom of the beach. It is the only
spot where people are likely to work on a puzzle, with the possible exception
of a nursing home. The pearly insides of shells call to be touched, and the
waves keep wooshing in, then out, and in again. There are waves to be crashed
into, beach tags to be checked, the moon to photograph, and constellations of
freckles to count. I have plenty of those.
People come from all over to Long Beach Island, New Jersey,
to spread out their rainbow of chairs and umbrellas, don their floppy hats, and
smear coconut sunscreen onto their bodies. By noon, the beaches are filled with
families. Plastic baby dolls bake in the sun outside of the aid of a staked
umbrella, while the owner splashes happily by the shoreline until the ice cream
bells ring.
A pod of New Yorkers stays put in their staked claim of
land, drinking Coronas and laughing. Some very tan young men lie on their
stomachs and face each other. One holds a smartphone. They all huddle around its
reflective surface as if it were fire. A few girls they flirt with pose on a
nearby blanket. There is a lot of hair tossing, and feigned disinterest when
their men get up and leave. Twenty minutes later, they leave too. The seagulls close
in on the Cheez-Its they’ve left behind.
We are here for an entire week, and this is the first week
off work for the past twenty years for my husband. So far in three short days we have eaten a lot of toast while sitting around in
our underwear, we’ve flown a kite, saved a land locked sand crab, spent a total of 15 hours
out in the sun while covered in SPF 1000 sunscreen, and fared just fine without
wiFi. My writing “office” is the yellow dining room with a window that
overlooks the beach.
The house we’re in is the Jersey Beach house of my
childhood. Dark paneled walls and ceilings make it feel like being inside a cheesebox. The dining room is
the only room that is painted, and the television, which we haven’t turned on
once since we arrived on Saturday, still has a sticker on it that reads “32”
LED TV.” The living room art consists of a resin plaque with a rose and the
word “Welcome“ on it, and two posters of beachscapes – one of a porch with two
Adirondack chairs looking out onto the ocean, and the other of a flower-filled
dune.
Flower-filled dune landscapes seem like a good artistic
choice after a few days of being lulled by gulls and waves, but everything I
buy at the beach is rendered useless and sad at home. I suspect this is a
common phenomenon. Beach artifacts.
A few years ago I bought a large scarf that was perfect for
walks in the evening along the shoreline, but when I wear it at home I feel as
ridiculous as if I’d wrapped myself up in a piece of Saran Wrap. Shells
plucked out of the sand are out of place and homesick sitting on the back of
the toilet in the bowl my daughter made in pottery class. Thankfully, I’ve
fought off the urge to buy the flip-flop hand soaps that were advertised in The
Sandpaper.
On this visit I didn’t win over the henna tattoo. The
lotus flowers fade on my ankle out of pure embarrassment now that I am home,
having found themselves adrift in a sea of asphalt whose waves wash forward, and
forward, and forward forever.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
It’s Only Seventeen Quadrillion Gallons of Water
From this angle,
even the glittering water
just seems unhinged,
like a serial-killer
who prefers the summer
months, the thrill
of laughter and play
stretched out on the sand,
ah yes, yes, so close-by.
Lace of foam
at the water’s edge?
Hell, no.
Froth at the mouth. Spittle
of excitement. Drool.
The ocean wants to eat me,
process my precious parts,
no compromise, until I am
just an idea. My husband’s
beloved pattern dismantled.
So many shipwrecks,
skeletal slough now part
of the majesty of a whale,
oh poetry! The circle of life!
I should mention
the lifeguards are people
who still have locker
combinations to remember.
Soft-bellied and drowsy
from long vacations,
we wag in the waves,
leap, shine in saltiness
that keeps us thirsty.
Twist deeper,
ah yes, yes,
nevermind
the hiss.
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