Beachcombing

by Sam Liming

Done floating, I come in on a wave
and skin my knee.

It’s South Carolina. All the beach
moms are wearing a red lip

and a flounce at the hip. I’m at that age
where I look at seventeen-year-olds

and grown-into-their-bodies men
in equal measure. Though I’m not sure

this age ever ends. The pink clouds of morning
have dissipated, the sky now

the same shade as blue jeans which are about to burst
at the knee. New clots are massing

along the horizon. The magazines
lie: the beach is a place of wobbling

bellies. Children cover the sand
with shouts of joy.

People watching, it amazes me
how many lay out

without an umbrella, though I suppose we are all gluttons
for puniness, aroused

by remembering we are
nothing compared to the sun.

Midmorning, a family arrives
and sets up their huge tent

too close to my towel.
The wife has two butterfly tattoos,

one below each fold of each ass-cheek.
I wouldn’t say they flutter,

and they aren’t really sexy,
though they make me think of sex,

of her on all fours,
making those little

monsters. The grit
of sand

is between my teeth now
and I don’t mind.

Butterfly-mom tells her son not to get sand
on anything. Poor kid

is going to need therapy.
Like dear God lady, the kid is in the biggest sandbox of all time

let him live a little. Feet trample
the shoreline and fingers forage

for souvenirs. The ocean
understands the game,

the daily loss it endures, and breaks
conches into fisted knuckles.

Down the beach, thunder. The clouds pinch in
and push the gulls down

closer to the bodies
which have stopped burning, are busy

calculating the threat
of rain. A cool breeze lifts

the sand around our ankles
and threatens to toss the umbrellas

just a little too far, like a father
growing tired of how young his son is still.

 

Sam Liming’s poems have been published in Palette Poetry, Leavings, and The Spotlong Review. She has an MFA from the University of South Carolina, where she served as editor for Cola Literary Review.