Kitty Hawk

The Atlantic gave me gifts
that spring; scallops, coquinas, augers
and angelwings. For thirty years
I have packed and unpacked them.
The grey conch and the shark’s teeth
have long since lost their sand
and shimmer, but in them I can see
the shadow of the girl I was.
Fingers in the foam, hair salty
and tangled, I stood at the shifting edge
and claimed every possibility
that glittered at my feet .

The April sea was fierce,
but I wanted it that way,
wanted to imagine
how it could take me
cold and swift, my blood
anchored to the undertow.
Now the wentletrap and lettered olive
are so far from the breakers,
but some nights an ebb tide
of moonlight touches them
and the thunder of waves
on a cloudy beach
comes back to me like a song.