The harsh sand stings. The salt air is bitter.
The sun makes everything sharp. I pick up
a seashell and it crumbles. My mother
is frail. She forgets. Everything is covered
with Post-its. An enriched beginning, a
new life, the lit espoused as if the past
washed away in a brutal wave and freed
her. Look, an aged sea turtle has left
its shell in the sand. The golden beach widens.
A generation of sea birds is dying.
We laid a grave of new sand to replace
what’s lost, erected seawalls to forestall
erosion. The terrain is unsettled.
We can’t save our beaches. Or anyone.
Gulls scavenge the plot: the ocean’s embroiled.