monday morning beach walk

What seems to be said so suddenly has

lived in the body for a long, long time.

David Whyte, “A Seeming Stillness”

The boardwalk is packed,

the sun still young. Stroller

pushers and dog walkers.

Retirees with insulated

mugs and long hair and

surfer-swag sweatshirts.

Barefoot, they watch the

joggers and roller bladers.

And laugh, with their arms.

My heart pounds, not

from the flat smooth sidewalk.

My heart keeps the beat with

my feet. It is release I seek.

I breathe salty air. Ocean

clean. On the shore I see her—

someone’s grandmother. She

flaps her arms, dives down

to her toes. All alone to the

wild waves she dances

a self-curated sun salutation.

On the minus tide, wide

white sand softens her feet.

Naked, touching the tip

of the Pacific, thick and grey

like these clouds, like this sky.

She flaps again, as if about

to take flight—where does

she want to go? And can I

go too? No, escape is not

what I want, I prefer a purge.

A riptide churning. A scraping

away. Barnacles. An unraveling

of tales, but how? To live with

naked toes? Exposed. How

to dive in, deep, and not

disappear? But haven’t I

already disappeared? In

numerous burying away

in bones? Nearing the end

of the path I stand high on

a hill. Unstable cliffs, it

says, stay back it says.

Danger, it says. So I walk

a bit further. To an opening,

until I can feel the soft

sand in my toes.