Myriad Memory

I couldn't call it a sandcastle but // that was the intention when // I clawed and closed my hands around // the wet grains of sand that cemented // and fell apart quickly // losing the shape of my squeezed palms // I was scooping and patting feverishly // into the green planter that first held a grocery dahlia // that mom packed hastily // this morning. // Megan was across from me. // At a table, we'd undoubtedly be // having a conversation // or staring at one another // blankly. But now we knew our posts // the sea foam drew near, // licking the edge of property we'd claimed. // I was adhering shells and tiny sticks // onto the row of tall sand cubes // that still held // their thick corners. // Meg's legs grew pink // and I couldn't stand to think // what would happen if I had to defend an actual city from being overtaken by natural disaster

                    in the silence there were                 windchimes hitting               each petal        I practiced my violin      to keep them company.             mon petit oiseau, my darling raven           we shared hours under           their shade to keep         cool         inhaling quiet               flaxen light

         that winter you were my overcoat.        You said cold days in Toulouse         could make a person's        bones hurt.    We became land explorers,          terra firma,       stayed clear of         the coast           I stopped playing            violin,          lost            golden        brown        from             my skin              but where we stopped         to rest        dead valleys,       mostly                  after I was to sleep       you       dropped     sunflower seeds