I bury the sucked-dry

peach pit, drop the reading

that makes me look good

on a blanket bought

and stained in Mexico,

bid adieu to time wrapped

in a clean change

of underwear. I break from

my childrens’ digging

to nowhere, my husband’s unwavering

Sunday paper.

I walk toward the sandbar

because its edge is closer to

somewhere else than anything

else.  As if I’m some land, sea

and sun goddess, I greet others

half exposed, keep my eyes

on theirs and offer prayers to

the endangered Piping Plover.

The expanse and I meet,

have our fruitless palaver.

Light and heat penetrate, burn.

I return and kiss heads

of salt.

—
Marjorie S. Thomsen is from Richmond, Virginia and currently lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  She recently started submitting her poetry; her work has appeared in Halfway Down the Stairs and contemporary haibun online.