Girl on a Beach Smooth skin pinked up after ocean’s bracing cold, her charcoal hair wildly tangled by the surf, shot through with seaweed; she’s glistening. She turns away from the others, gazing back at the endless waves, the water calling her back before she’s even dry, before she’s reclaimed by the sand, before she plunges back into the life of her parents, her friends on the beach. She will come back to them, when she’s good and ready. Now they see only the broad blank slate of her back, the twist of her torso beneath a blousy bathing suit, red-orange, striped and dotted; childish. But her round thighs spreading on the sand, are not a child’s. She sighs, and props one arm against a bent knee, the better to set her stance. She will come back to them, when she has to, when hunger or thirst or the sound of laughter weakens her resolve. Not yet though. Not while she twists with the visceral pull of tides, savors the salt-scented breeze, cocks her ears to the crash-boom of breakers. Not while she searches out a thin line of horizon with eyes no one else can see. Sara Palmer Sara Palmer is a retired psychologist and an active writer, reader, hiker, knitter, and volunteer with literary and health nonprofits. Her poems have appeared in Yellow Arrow Journal, Pen in Hand, and Poetry is Life: Writing with Yellow Arrow. She lives in Baltimore, MD.
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December 2024
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