A Poem: The First in a Long While

Oi. I'm so rusty I'm practically molting red dust. Please excuse.

-

"Bleaching"

I remember being small.
Long flat feet at the end of spinning limbs
slapping the film of water
at the far reach of the waves.

I would sift, through sharp beach grass and bird bones,
crushed crab shells and hunting ants,
for the perfect interior coil of a whelk,
an arc of lighting in the sand.

It was the shape, not the completeness, that counted.

I would rinse my mouth with sea water,
suck brine from the end of my braid,
so each sip from the bottle was sweet.
A simple experiment with an expected surprise,
transfiguration in a plastic vessel.

I knew it was the sea that did the changing.
The sweetness, no alchemy, but response.

Somewhere
(in the dunes?)
I've forgotten being small.
Left off the hunt
for that twist of shell
beneath bitter grass
and the shining sweet burst
beyond the mouthful of salt.