My toes love the sand.
The first little wave
to find the beach
draws back when we touch.
Mothers lift little naked children
when the waves get higher
but they cry,
they want to feel the sea.
We sleep naked under a sheet
that moves by the welcome draught.
Skin, we are all skin in Summer.
I watch the beige of your back
where the shape becomes half a moon
and lighter. We sleep together
in a bed too large to find us back.
When we are born,
the first thing they do to us
to put distance between the child,
it’s dirt, and the mother.
When we are dead, even then,
we are dressed up.
My mother is buried in a nylon dress,
her favorite, because
dirt fell off it and she liked clean.
Long after her bones are gone,
her dress will be there,
unchanged by time, untouched by earth.
I want to be naked
when I am put in a hole in the sand,
somewhere near the shore.
Maybe the sea will want me then
and not reject me.