Bess Jones

A nick of a rubbery tip,
the stretched neck six inches deep,
the burrowed body praying for rain.

I carve at the grain, careful
not to crack my existence. Must keep
the shell safe in my grip.

A vehement squirt protests.
A match of wills, but I’ll win,
unless I let go,
unless I’ve had enough,
unless I save the rest for another day.

The waves behind the dunes tug
at my gnat-bitten arms, yet
the friction of sand scraping in quest of the gritty sea,
the vista of water, flats, and grass, and the stillness,
the stillness keeps me here.

I find infinite holes.

Barefooted, with a half-bucket haul, just enough,
we pass the red dinghy, John’s buoy, and sea lavender
growing amongst the sea beans.

Yes, let’s add the lavender and beans.