Beach Poem Three
Went to the beach at low tide,
picked my way east, pictured myself loping
like an animal with one leg wounded,
the way I sank uneven in the sand.
Sea birds hopped and glared,
drew their heads tight to their chests,
or flew low and fearless in front of me.
Here, the rocks where a skinny sunburnt tyrant
bashed a mussel to splinters in hopes
of trapping a spider crab and then,
magnanimous, letting it go. There’s that
great Cisneros story, the one
about being all the ages you ever were.
The beachfront seethes with a pack of wild girls,
here violent here weeping here actually
leaping with joy, swinging small fists,
running into the water, sunburn peeling
with no thought of slowing down.
Caitlin Breen is a writer and elementary teacher living in eastern Connecticut.