His car was parked at the court’s mouth.
Mom shouted from the window,
Be careful, her maroon lips distant
buoys off the Atlantic.
It was his turn to take us.
That evening we went to Long beach:
I sat on my father’s lap and drove the jeep,
fast enough to forget my legs
were too short to reach the pedals.
It was June, still cold, but we rolled
our jeans up, raced down the sand bar.
I shot fistfuls of sand at my brother, showed off
my backhand-spring, thrashed
into deep water. He emerged in the darkness
and dragged me out,
carrying me over the dunes like a bride.
Our father was far out on the jetty.
Drenched in seaweed and the thrill
of adventure, we flailed and yelled at him –
We survived! We survived!
But he kept on fishing in his thick rubber boots.
Just another rock, forced against the rest
by the pressure of the tide.
Photo By: webtreats
