Pacific

The ocean where I was raised would
numb my ankles and knees,

so as a child, I was convinced I could
not swim if I could feel. And then

there was the sand. Since in those days,
everything I loved was breaking

down, I used to find grit in my pajamas
of a morning, new raw places

as if a wave had rolled me while I slept.
Anything we might have eaten in

that ocean swam deep. We children
used to fly circles from dawn to

dusk, scanning for shadows, as we grew
daily thinner on our white wings.

Copyright © 2007 Lola Haskins All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission