the sand is scorching,
like pressing your soles into hot coals,
and the ocean isn’t pretty anymore –
it’s a dirty, oversized fish tank.

nothing is what you remember –
the blue silk water,
the drifting fog overhead,
the glossy seaweed
grazing your leg,
the shimmering shore
glazed over with smooth pebbles and snails,
your mother’s childish laugh
merged with the ambiance of waves and gulls,
the tide washing away
magnificent palaces of sand you built with her

now the water isn’t blue.
it’s a muddy green like
your father’s hardened, hazy eyes.
your breath seizes as seaweed
catches your ankles and wrists,
as though the brine is plotting
your inevitable end.

tin cans and beer bottles converge
in dark alcoves that
everyone ignores

but you.