Low Tide at Sundown
Instead of pearls the woman wears
flies, a kelp dress, a fine shade of blue for her eyes.
She needs the sun, the poor pale thing,
as we need a door in the ocean floor, a way back
to yesterday’s buckets and moats, the deflated
floats and the long-tailed kites that snapped their strings.
But the sky drains of light and color
and the moon shines deep in her skin.
If the sun escapes we will be left to see
her body merge with the dark, her flesh settle into the same sand
we’ve buried our feet in all week.
The stinging wind drives away the red
buckets, wears down the castles, and tumbles inadequate
shovels. Naked, she’s swallowed her name. Nothing left
to call her but dead.
by Brent A. Fisk
from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 16, January 2010
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim