By Miguel Barretto García
At midday when the sun is caking the sand
and skin, the beachfront gathers the sound
from the sea and it is almost certain, we are
hearing the boat singing about its wreckage.
Forgetting to bring sun-block, I am sitting there
watching my own wreckage. On the sandy shore,
the boat is about to dock only to be carried back
by the tides. Like a leaf surfing along infinite water,
I simply surrendered. How brave those children
wading in the water. Despite green seaweed
tentacles and minefields of urchins, they are water,
one with the ocean. Skin only standing in between.
Perhaps, it is necessity. I have been sitting on the shore
for nearly all my life for the bow to kiss the blue sand,
watching for the wait to turn into an arm and a eulogy.
I am a lettered bottle: bruised, but ready for the carrying.
How small is memory that it is bottled up and baked
in the sun until the trauma is the clearest glass
shard. I carry the tides’ whisper in me. Like a conch shell,
I make language around it. I hear all of her secrets.
All of her wishes on a bottle floating on an endless sea
of possibility. An astronaut of this shore, she sends back
messages about the world beneath her feet and Western
Union transfers. I am listening to the ocean whispering
this evening about sinking feet. When I comb my hair
with my fingers to expose the scalp, I am parting the sea,
a mother and her child. Shipwreck is a little more than
a scab: What is it outer there that is more precious than me?