Commuting cars along 13 Mile Road
sound like the rush of the ocean waves,
tumbling at low tide, and I am taken
to the seashore where you combed
for shelled treasures and washed them
in wet salt. Your bare feet awash
in the surf, you bowed your head
to the sun.
Time never curls back, and I will never
again stand on the edge of the world
between earth and ocean nor burn
beneath your radiance, your smile,
curving and lifted when you look at me.
I am land-locked now, living in a crummy
basement, bereft of sun and sky and you,
wrapping daylight around my dank nights.
My grief wanders there into early morning,
stands in the middle of the road and looks up
I do not believe in miracles or accidents,*
only the star, perhaps a planet, peeking
through a sudden parting of clouds
and the swerving car, horn sounding long,
wheels braking hard, but too hurried to stop.
I watch the tail lights fade into the distance,
return to my basement where I sleep hard
and do not dream of seashores.
* Excerpt by Sylvia Plath