with the intention of later picking small grains
as our parents cracked open swollen, scarlet lobster claws;
we always thought well in advance.
red and gold
a hapless grin
salt and blood.
i learned to never keep my back to the ocean
when i turned to wave in your direction
and instead met sand hard as cement,
shells scraping skin.
i'd much prefer the oak tree, to crouch in the branches
and let the spiders gently crawl across my hand
tracing the map that leads to you.
