starfishgirl

a small girl stands alone
on the seashore, an urchin
clutched hard in one fist, stick legs planted
in the sucking sand, her toes curled
and cold inside rubber boots three sizes too big
passed down from a growing brother; her other
hand at her brow, shading
her gaze
wind ruffles her wild
anenome hair,
narrows her obsidian eyes

her family is scattered along the eternal
curve of beach, their shapes smudged and dim in seamist
but close as a heartbeat

through white noise of surf
the girl kicks rocks onto their backs
crunches sand in her teeth
finds treasure in the dictionary
between flotsam and jetsam:
glass fishing float bobbed over from Japan
its eggshell bulb unbroken by the Pacific
kaleidoscope bottles, their notes dissolved and unread
if there even were any
and the million vermillion
starfish
who freely give her their name

on those long summer days she walked for miles
but the sentinel headlands distant
sprouting crook-fingered trees
remained static, remote bookends
through all the slow ebb of childhood.

Then a change
in the weather;
clouds take wing
seasons speed up

and one morning
the rubber boots fit, grow snug,
and by evening
are too small
cast away
to the licking tongue of the sea

Now she walks the beach with no shoes
the sand smooth on the sole
and the rocky headland
gripped by naked feet,
turns turtle and runs
under her new and moving horizon.

-poem by bradley