[Poetry] Beachcombing by Justine Defever

Poseidon coaxes us like stray cats,

tossing sea glass like kibble.

My oldest friend and I

scour the Monterey shoreline.

Sand mites nip our ankles

while we scavenge for shiny fragments

between acrid foam and seaweed.

We shriek at miscalculated surf

invading our tennis shoes.

Waves make conversation impossible.

We were kids 20 years ago

splashing around the gravel pit

on my parents’ farm in Michigan.

Tadpoles nibbled the dead skin

from our toes in our makeshift spa.

It was the coolest place

during summer vacation

for weird kids to skip stones,

catch snakes, and talk

about Greek mythology.

Her happiness at making it out

of our home state, living the city life

is as clear as pale-yellow light

breaking across the indigo ocean.

Clouds and constellations

retreat, revealing the horizon.

We wandered several miles from where we started.

Calves pounding to the bone,

we trudge back for breakfast.

I carry the beach

in the cuffs of my jeans

back to my landlocked town.

The glass in my pockets

clinks across the jet bridge

like aurora windchimes

singing without a breeze.

I fly back to my driftwood life

of waiting for a coast

where my life will wash ashore.

Justine Defever resides in Michigan and is an Associate Professor of English. Her poetry has been featured in North American Review, Great Lakes Review, and in other anthologies. Read more of her work at justinedefever.com.