By Julia Rose Lewis
We are greeting,
greedily holding and hugging
he and I. I retreat to the beach
beneath the umbrellas: yellow,
blue, green. Then
to the blue bench, looking to the parking lot
the beach lies to the left.
While I watch the end of the afternoon
he takes the flag down.
long-time part-time island traditions,
the seagulls here are all called Herman,
for the man who listened to Captain Pollard’s tale.
I wore gray
on gray on faded denim
sea-stained and sand encrusted.
He passed over gray floor boards full
of splinters. I have been on the wrong side
of the cliffside for so long.
Here he was an ant
soldier in the war
he taught me was waged against the sand,
afterward I rolled up my jeans. Inside,
he paused beside
me to brush the hair from his eyes.
Learn all the stories the hotel has to tell,
I tell myself,
the little Pennsylvania girl with the man
who comes from the northeast
of Indiana, he points out the nearest
town on an atlas, his family farm
is too small to see.
He lets himself blush; he really
needs a headband. His beautiful hair
falls into his eyes and I allow
my fingers to follow. Yet,
I can’t taste yellow, only old salt.
Memorial Day to Labor Day,
isle while away.
Could I love a place as I should
love a person?
a guy with
a green soft-top Jeep Wrangler,
a permit to go out to Coatue,
a long picnic at Great Point,
Terrible teeth are meaningless
On hot sand and broken shells feet harden,
he has beastly feet;
I have reading hands.
He reaches for his reading glasses
as the sun burns through the fog
in the morning.
reaching out to hug him.
Where the seagulls are all called Herman,
We are good at hugg
A holding pattern
here we are as old as our beloved.
Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston University London. She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA. She lives on Nantucket island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.