POEM: Jones Beach

Jones Beach

The Neptune calm

deceived the children.

It pushed green foam

like rushing lava

lapping white

on fresh black cement

of beachhead.

We ran from stealthy

water, with lips chilled

blue as crab claws

evading waves,

making the sand boil

from below.

We’d know to hunt

for clams then, or pretend

it was the place

where mermaids lived.

Horizon ghosts

were just boats with secrets.

The smiling gulls

hung on wires

above trash cans.

The salt teeth of air

bit sandy bathing suits,

until everything itched.

The cold water was foreign

Picking at aching muscles,

our skin was as tight

as singing kite string.

The boats grazed smooth

across the flat line

they pulsed with a snail

glide, these tankers

that were nameless shadows,

like empty shells we’d

stuff in our pockets

for display later on

on our bookshelves at home.

The tide, like oil,

snuck up on the dry sand,

bleached white from the sun

Then carried things off

to blue-black waves

that carried off names

of those who’d been pulled

into the rip tide,

like the bottles we stuffed

with our secret notes

& throw out into

A blind sea.

We hoped to make contact

with some stranger

who didn’t know the language

only the bottles were tossed ashore

by a wave just a mile

down the road, near the shadowy

jetty, slickened from

seaweed, expelled

by a lonely ocean,

where, picked up as trash,

they were thrown away

without a second thought.