I had a container,” she said-
the woman with marbled cellulite
on the back of her legs,
“this isn’t sand,
The shadows here melt
into the clear spikes of the seagrass
as the sun sets.
It is a painting where translucent ocean
is pockmarked with the brushstrokes of waves
and the lighthouse is perfect
and far away.
I find the woman’s obesity intriguing
(and repulsive) like a bizarre plant that grows
in ways that I do not understand.
(I shudder at my own judgmental thoughts.)
She wished to collect the beach,
in a jar like a drink to relish another day.
But I know
that it is not in the shells
in which one may store this place-
only in the stones.
They do not drain of beauty when deprived
of salt sunlight
the way shells do.
I wonder if she knows that.