Adelaide B. Shaw
Sorrowful or Triumphant
Bobby and Donny, older than me. Brothers, ages thirteen and twelve. I’m ten and not a good swimmer. I splash and dog-paddle, sink and rise to sink again. The boys, slim and lithe, sun-brown as walnuts and speed swimmers. Living across from the water, they are out every day on this lonely, narrow and empty stretch of sand beyond a crumbling rock wall.
low tide testing courage on the backs of periwinkles
On the sandbar, beyond the slippery mud and snails, the sea bed is smooth with undulating sand, the water, a pale blue-green, free of sea weed, calm as bath water.
splashing waves gales of laughter and a screaming voice
The cousins pull me by the ankles, push me down, four arms against two, flapping and useless. Lungs hurt. Bright lights flashing beyond closed eyes. Fear.
a bad dream mama brings sunshine into the night
The sea in my mouth, the sudden rise to air filling my lungs. As I stand crying, wailing, tears mingling with salt water, the boys move away.
tide coming in the rush to safe land and life as normal
About the Author
Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Somers, New York. She has been creating Japanese poetic forms for fifty years. Her books, An Unknown Road and The Distance I’ve Come, are available on Amazon.