Beachfog
I
is what you call the blurry sand-dust drifting
while we were walking Pismo Beach
and holding hands. We stood in its tidepools
like it was telling us a story. It has been here
longer than us. For a million years,
the ocean has wanted our cave. It will want it for a million more.
I want you. The last time we came to Pismo,
we carved our names into the algae
growing on the cave walls. It was in good company:
the initials of first loves, last loves, friends who were not lovers,
friends who wanted badly to be lovers, all grooves in the algae,
all salt stench, all beach hair and thinking that their names
will last longer than them.
We go looking for our names
but find only an empty beer can and a perfect slope of rock
where we stop so you can press against me
where I imagine
building a home so you can touch
the bare skin between my swimsuit forever.
II
is what I call the graydark of the clouds
that whip over the sand at Pismo Beach, so thick
you have to convince me it isn’t wildfire smoke. The ocean,
you say, is just sometimes like that. Full of fog
and darkness. I like it, your hand holding
my hand, pointing and leading like a tour guide.
It’s our third time at Pismo and the broken opening of rock
to the right of the beach volleyball nets
is our cave, the pier our pier,
our bluffs, our brown pelicans, our clams and cockles, seaweed blobs, your
hands, your hands, your hands. Pismo again, and we wouldn’t mind
some tequila, a bit more sun, or maybe just a room
to ourselves. Between bareskin touching, our favorite hobby at Pismo,
we talk of the future. The future, silver and watching, heavy
as rainclouds or ocean exhaust. We talk of schooling,
kitchen appliances, king sized bed sheets. We talk
of the future and I want it so bad. The future,
and everything that could happen—
It takes closing my eyes, toeing the algae, to keep
myself from saying out loud, Don’t die. Please.
The fear comes, real as your touch. The shells sharp edges on my feet. The crabs
clicking in tidepools. Don’t die,
I say to myself, salt whispers. The fog lifts
as we drive away, sand coating your knees.
The fog, turning to light. The wheel and your hands.
