the tide rises, the tide falls | an oceanic literary magazine
tuna salad by the sea
These days I like to eat my lunch under the shade of
lifeguard tower number three. A mix of tuna, celery, and
organic mayonnaise. This beach reminds me of
another, where I laid under the Sun, read a novel
set in Greece, drank warm Beaujolais, and on a soft hued reverie
you come and sit beside me, and we wait, for the Sun
to set as we listen to the Earth give birth to a breaking
wave. Even in my dreams we were never good at talking.
I open a roll of saltines and eat one, upside down because
I like to feel the grains of salt on my tongue. The waves
are shy, the tide is low, too low, I hum a little lullaby my solitude
composed, something about sea salt and a starfish. Lately
my heart's been kind of achy, sore, homesick. I finish my salad.
I also brought one Fuji apple, my favorite because it's oh–
so sweet! It tastes like the promise of a brand new summer,
a wooden house, a cherry tree, a song I've yet to sing.
Before my mind starts to itch and question whether Fuji apples
in fact come from Japan (they do), I take off my espadrilles and
walk into the sea. The water is cold, too cold, I walk
until my thighs are underwater, exactly at that spot where
my fingers brush the surface, then a little more
until I feel it in my chest, the water embraces
me, her wayward daughter, and I,
I let her wash away every trace of every thing I ever lost.
Coral is a Mexican poet. Her first poetry collection 'wildflower' will be published in 2024. She lives in San Diego, CA with her bunny.