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That morning I floated in the Mediterranean fully clothed

Natalie Cox

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I want to write a poem about the day you died.
About the walk past the flamingoes and the sea reeds,
the foamy bay scabby with trash and the restaurants abandoned still from winter.
I want to write about sitting on the boardwalk squinting at the sun shining off waves,
the way the sand stuck to my sunburn and stung,
the coarse applause of water on pebbles.
About the sea pulling the sand from under my toes and
in half-moon curves from my feet, about the sea
around my ankles, and
cooling the skin of my calves and
pulling at my skirt.
About the final plunge and floating.