by Summer Elison
What do you know about memory?
Or how the light feels after reflecting and refracting,
only to be burnt out each night? A grain of sand
under every fingernail, I built castles, as a child.
To pray is to dangle bait: Dear Jehovah,
“if you, I will, amen” I stayed quiet
when waves crashed on my castle. At night,
sand crabs turn to worm. An unexpected twist
of the tide. The ocean turns its black on me.
I can’t remember the last time I prayed.
Sometimes I plunge my palms into the sand
of my youth, to find a treasure of blood worms.
How could I ask for sand crabs?
