all the princesses are doing it
it's a perfect summer morning, waves
smashing up on the pebbled shore,
tattered fog scratched away from the sky
this blue like my brother's eyes.
We're digging for sand crabs.
found a big one
here's a good place
the wind pulling words from our teeth.
there's a rhythm to our digging.
follow the wave out
dig toes into the rippling sand
and when the wiggles are felt
plunge hands into the surf, under sand,
scoop up great handfuls and plop them into buckets.
we're hunters here on the beach.
In my mind I am a long-legged bird,
beach comber, raccoon, last member
of a dying race, driven to the coast.
I do not know who my brother is
in his head on the shore.
perhaps he is an eight-year old
sent out to dig bait with his sister.
Perhaps he's an agent in wartime
or a marginal piper. or
a fisherman, himself.
If he plays a role I'm unaware.
bare toes dug in the sand, I run
legs flashing
to the next rich sand bed,
the crabs fearing my seeking toes.
12/8/99