This Me to That You
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-
or could you still feel
the sun when it broke?
Emma DePanise is a creative writing student at Salisbury University. She has poems in The Saunterer and has received the Whall Honors Award for Writing Excellence.