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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume One Issue Two |
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The Sun Does Not Rise, We Turn To It My father carries two chairs just past the dunes and sets them up as I head for the shoreline in his racquetball champions jacket, jeans rolled up to my knees feet flinching at March's Atlantic. Scattered beyond a tide pool I find bits of crustacean sharp skin, and am convinced they are the jaws of shattered swordfish. He sits next to the empty chair and won't come to the water, his hip hardly lets him walk on the sand. Down in the wet of the dawn, I gather the pieces, waxy, smelly, glittering like black and lavender onyx. When I was a child I saw the most beautiful crab that ever existed, and as I gaped at its colors, a fisherman's mallet smashed it apart, into bait. I arrange my pieces into a fish shape on the beach, as though they want reunion. If I could swim to Ohio. Limping, he carries the chairs to the car, waves; he'll wait for me there. |
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