Beach Poem [I]

The water here is the color of blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers, the color that clung to my mouth after history class, after 41 minutes of staring at the doorway and hoping to catch a glimpse of your skinny back.

I saw my daughter’s toes curling like her arched spine. I don’t have a daughter, but if I did I would never make her take a history class. I’ve learned less from them than from the line of your legs in tight jeans.

I don’t have a daughter, but when I squinted in the sun I saw her shoulder blades peppered with freckles, her feet spidery and pale. And the first thing I hoped is that she’ll never have to stare at doorways and listen for the slap of your shoes against dull floor.