A rusty pastel-striped beach- 

chair, sinking deeper with each 

breaker, pools swallowing metal, 

was your throne. We kneeled, 

 

building a wall to protect 

your feet, toe nails painted puke 

pink, from high tide. Rocks wedged 

beneath finger nails, scraping skin 

 

so salt burned. Wet sand cemented 

like bricks. We oozed it between 

closed fists, drizzling medieval 

castles, Roman cathedrals. Collapsing, 

 

we scrambled to push up and pat 

down the lost. Can we decorate 

your hair with seaweed before 

the last wave pounds? 

 

Was it electric- 

eel-down-your-spine cold, 

or could you still feel 

the sun when it broke?