by Lea Anderson
she throws her hair like a fisherman throws a net—
the dark threads draping across her shoulder’s sweep—
a body, themselves. languishing. shimmering with sweat
or sun. the boredom of barnacles half-steeped
in salt. what was it they say about the meek
and inheritance? her dark skin’s glistening.
the fact of her in the surf. waves lapping her feet
like excited hound-tongues. she’s listening
to the gulls cat-calling. they all want her.
the wind’s grabby hands, pressing her skirts
to the round of her hips. challenge demure.
the world, one large sopera in which we hurt—
above, the abalone sliver of crescent could be her heel.
this, the beginning or end of the earth at which we kneel.