That you can see stingrays skate 
Above seaweed 
In ever-evolving outlines 

Is where the mind stings in inability 
To capture what the shape of this—this plastic bag, 
This sand-sunken stone, this flaccid pancake, this water-logged kite, this polygonal magpie, this forgotten balloon—thing really is. 

Where the waves spread shallow enough 
That they wash around your form 
In beckoning clouds 

Is where you imprint yourself in the sand and piercing shell,
Back turned against beach chairs and coral towels and hotel windows 
And sit in eye-widening, mouth-quivering awe of the stretching divide of sky and sea and scent 
Of salt in the wound of this gaping expanse of world. 

And rays of yellow—no white—no pink—prickle at the edges of your gaze. 

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Oh, My Word! is a weekly updated blog featuring fiction, poetry, drama, and essays for the world. #OhMyWordWednesday

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