Fruit of the Muses

My skin—prickled pink

from the stinging glare 

of the sun.

The shoreline,

tinted through my aviators,

draws back from the crashing water.

Salt sinks deep

into the wounds in the sand,

bleeding remnants of unyielding waves

in footprints

left by that young,

star-eyed boy

running to keep up with his father;

that woman celebrating

with new silicon in her bikini top,

hunting the freshly tanned lifeguard,

hiding his sleeping eyes

beneath the straw of his hat.

I place one foot

in front of the other,

into the prints left by strangers,

taking steps in the path of another.

And I feel no different.

My shoulders still sting with sunburn.

I still feel uncomfortably relaxed

with droplets of sweat

beading up and falling, 

running their greedy way

down my neck, curving

over my collarbones

and tracing the space

between my breasts.

I feel no different

walking the way

of the single mother,

gripping the hand of her little girl—

blonde curls escaping

her makeshift bun.

I feel no different

following the steps

of the grieving wife—

concealing her teary eyes 

with the back of her hand

as she opens the mason jar

of her fisherman husband,

sending him into the place he loved.

I feel no different than

these people, walking their

footpaths, trodden with 

the need for resilience. 

Maybe because I’ve stumbled through

these paths before.

The waves pull back,

and push forward again

over my feet, caressing

these footprints,

dragging them away, 

healing, washing away 

the broken spirits that 

left them behind.

And before I turn to go

I look back to the water,

at the way the horizon 

creases over an infinity 

of mended heartaches.

I close my eyes

and allow the breeze to 

whip my hair across my cheeks.

The sun digs its fingers

into my skin, burning, burning,

warming my soul,

shedding light upon that 

empty cavern of a loss

that pried its way into

the core of my being,

settling like oil in water,

to the soles of my feet.

And as I leave

I mark my troubles

in the sand,

the ocean wraps its heartstrings

around them,

pulling them back to an oblivion

like the others,

and I feel lifted

with the art of letting go.