Do you remember my first day at the beach?
I slid behind sunglasses,
while he lectured racketeers,
on the flaw of their swing.
Before he came, I was wavy;
curling my words around
us like barnacles. When
I saw his face i got stuck.
We played a game that day.
I won. I usually do: the dice
are good to me. They always
are. Luck is easy to rely on.
I was a silent island. I tried
not to let my eyes lurch to the left;
my little urchin mouth stayed closed
so that I spiked myself, the words
I wanted to say. I didn’t kiss him hello
and I still don’t know why.
You didn’t know any of this.
You can’t have. You don’t need to.
Sitting there, spinning the dice,
drowning in thought, a bee
clung to my arm and I cried
out in alarm. I sat quite still
-I’ve been practicing- and you
flicked it off, fluid as a flame.
It was your turn. You rolled but
then you paused. I turned over
to see what you saw.
You got up and you rescued
that damn bee as it struggled
in the sand. I wanted to tell you that
it was such a honey-sweet gesture
-you made me go fuzzy- but
he was there, and he didn’t know
that you drank my nectar one time.
I didn’t want to be inappropriate.
As if he cared.