I.
I kill November days
in a beach town of retirees. I ride
my bike down boulevards and pretend I am someone
else. I find hidden coves
to read inside and eat every meal quietly,
but like it is my last. I keep
to myself though the strangers are kind.
Heat warps the department store windows, but in them,
I am new. I am kind.
I kill November days
in a beach town of retirees. I ride
my bike down boulevards and pretend I am someone
else. I find hidden coves
to read inside and eat every meal quietly,
but like it is my last. I keep
to myself though the strangers are kind.
Heat warps the department store windows, but in them,
I am new. I am kind.
The whole month, I have dreams
where I meet myself at ten. When I awake,
I see, in the vague moonlight
through my blinds,
my arms stretched above me. I almost
touch me, but she is gone
before I can mold
my palms to the sides of her face.
II.
This person I am will be
like that, I say pointing
to the last touch
of sun clinging to the horizon.
The old woman and I watch
as the ocean flames with light.
I say, like the sun, I will dig
my nails into the day
until there is no more
space in the sky for me
and I have no choice
but to fall into the new
dark of tomorrow.
III.
The smell of my hair
frying and coarse with salt
is something I have never breathed
in before. Barefoot on the street corner, I stop
and try to memorize the sensation.
I know at once I am inside
a memory. The next ocean I dive to meet
will smell of this November. Whatever this may be.
The smell of my hair
frying and coarse with salt
is something I have never breathed
in before. Barefoot on the street corner, I stop
and try to memorize the sensation.
I know at once I am inside
a memory. The next ocean I dive to meet
will smell of this November. Whatever this may be.
In my inhale, I want to reach across
time and place my burnt cheeks in her cool hands.
I know this older me feels every inch
of me now, and I only imagine
her with faint fondness. I wait
for her to tell me who I am
even though I cannot hear a thing.
