A little black speck
hopping, leaping -- bug-like,
on razored horizons of
muted sand and muted waves,
and pockmarked clumps of ochre seaweed;
this strange and bearded beach,
an unshaven man, disheveled.
The speck comes closer
Sun berates my tired shoulders,
a breeze travels my hip;
I look down at my legs --
they might be detached from me --
and I am still.
Then, that motion.
Perhaps it is him, after all.
Little black rectangles of swim trunks,
and a small spry body,
new and perfect and slightly pink.
Blond curls like a tiny lions's
bobbing up and down in emphatic light.
The bug-speck has become my son,
traversing the dark and mottled sand,
arms outstretched in diagonal flight,
his reddish mouth an "O,"
singing songs of monsters and jets.
He is upon me
holding a sandy, squirming, helpless crab.
He is full of life and noise and wonder,
and all-boy games of
bravado and whoop.
And then I know,
I know amidst all this,
that he is joy,
and joy is this --
and yet I fear
it's not enough.
Tart and sour and bitterly acidic,
like the pure, fine juice of a surrender
so perfect. A destruction so infinite
that not even limes or lemons or bile
could make her feel whole again.
She is quartered with seeds,
and her stomach turns
like the kiss of a hangover
without the kiss,
but only the pithy whiteness
and the hardened core
of truth and telling.
She is thirsty but eager - not tired -
and she opens her shaking hand
for a brand new glass again.
She closes her eyes,
drinks her seduction,