Published by the South Florida Poetry Journal (SoFloPoJo)

My father says that grief, for him, is
the riptide current of the prickly ocean,
the not knowing when it will lurch
at ankles, its swirling funnel leeching
onto calves, draining blood and tugging
downwards, that sometimes it’s a small wave
slamming you from behind when your back is
turned and your feet were rooted in sand.

For me, it is the trudging back from the water
to your beach towel, hair dripping with salty brine
while sunbathers’ eyes plant themselves
upon your damp flesh, feet unsteady as you
tiptoe over cracked seashells and try to seem
as if you’ve only just been for a swim, and not
that you’ve been submerging yourself with intent,
and that you preferred it down there.