He pinches his
wife’s skin
touching her
salt to his tongue
to cut the
bitterness of his words.
Light bouncing
off the sun tea stuns her
momentarily as
she fondles
an ice cube
pendant dripping
down the nape
of her neck
as she imagines
wringing her shirt
into a jar,
wishing she would have
pickled his
last morning kiss- 1966.
She trips the
sprinkler for the kids.
He nods off,
swatting away snores like flies.
She speaks, Shhh…now we whisper…
And her
children learn the language
of the sea and
the rhythm of waves
in the chk chk chk spraying out seconds.
The young ones
poke at drowned anthills
and buoyed
sweet gum balls
in puddles of a
sodded corner lot.
Their feet,
sandy with mud
and wet with
tar from the bubbling street
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