the tide rises, the tide falls | an oceanic literary magazine

My mother stood at the ocean’s edge—
wearing an oversized tee shirt knotted at the waist...

sometimes, you see that i am not shallow puddles / i am swerving...

I will wait for you on the beach at Montauk,
with a plate of fried shrimp...

Tide pushes these crusted histories.
Tendrilled, tangled, nylon scraps...

The earth is drowning
in its own blood...

The temperature today is above one hundred
degrees...

You stand at the edge of the water,
holding me in a jar...

The temptation is real – the impulse to fall, to plunge.
Mirador shift on the Rig, observation duty...

I guess the moon snail won’t object
if I get down beside it in the sand, dig...

Mother, where do we go from here?
From your scorched body we wander...

On the train I try to break the distance.
On the bus, my hellos too small and my smiles...

I.
You’re telling her jokes as you walk through shallow...