The Sand Dollar

The dying soldier didn't seem young.
No one over twelve seemed young.
He was stretched on the boardwalk
listening to the surf that killed him.
His tan swim suit had dark swirls
like the wet curls on his chest.
Around his head a crown of water
was spreading red on the planks.

Thick as molten lead, the breakers
were surging against the boardwalk.
It looked deep enough to dive.
I turned as his dog tags were pulled,
their clink carrying through the crowd.

No matter how much this scene replays
some frames remain gray. They void
as a sand dollar, pressed and cracked,
that loses its bony heart. Don't ask
the shape of his head. Or the color
of his eyes, wide and swollen, pleading
for something he knew I didn't have-
or maybe he was asking me to stay.



Flotsam

Up-curving like a narrow hull
the snake's backbone lies
beached and derelict.
A serpent skull snarls at the bow,
dull fangs still striking at the sun.
Eight rattles anchor the stern

in watery shade. Tossed by the days,
the long ship deconstructs.
Adrift in spiked loosestrife,
the thread-thin ribs,
white as a Viking's sword,
build into its funeral raft.



The Gift

Recovered from my aunt's dresser
a lemon scented page, squeezed yellow
by finger and thumb, the edge waved
in soft, soiled ruffles.
Her scribble filled the poem
with lines and circles
in the shape of a woman.
Not yet seasoned enough to take it whole,
between sips of bourbon,
she spooned the words down, savoring
their taste in bits and pieces.