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Arroyo Burro Beach. The tide dies a while then starts its way up again — & up again. Fog rolls in, dense & sudden. Behind me there’s a rock halfway to the end of the bay, hunched, split in two, black & blue with mussels — that’s where I turn around & walk back each day. A restlessness swells inside the tides there — & it’s there each time, just before I can look away — everything drowns into itself again & into gray. I no longer pick up shells — I let them be: wave rake them back & place them at my feet again anyway: small skeletons, empty of life, but pretty. Look at me, writing circles around what I must face: The man I love is dead. The ashes he asked I lose to this ocean are still in our room, in a red box he gave me, for some birthday in New York. His dust. I’ll keep it a while longer — keep it as one secretly keeps something for one’s self & won’t, today at least, lose more of him to these waves.
‘Arroyo Burro Beach’ from These Many Rooms (c) 2019 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Appears with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.