She tosses this question at the camera—“Am I young or old?”
The answer seems obvious enough—hair like gold (try to touch it—absolute beauty burns like fire) tumbling to her waist; a face, skin, fresh as dew, radiant; lips, eyes that dance, don’t fear: what could she be but young, still safe?
But wait, stare back at her awhile, see this—eyes mirroring a depth greater than even she knows, a depth like the sea unrolling, unrolling, unrolling.
Last sun touches
the lone human on the
beach—a woman leaning
over a shell half-
buried in the dark sand
near the water’s
edge. She reaches and
runs her fingers along the
ridged white shell but
won’t pick it up, won’t
even move it. (She knows
she doesn’t have the right.)
But maybe through simple
touch she can share in the
knowledge it offers
willingly
to
her
salt fingertips.
The transfer completed
in silence, the sun gone—
she straightens, looks fleetingly
in this direction, turns and
moves on, across white
deserted beach.
She’s gone too soon—off
making Spartan dinner (tomato
soup, crackers, cheese) for
herself. Later to lie down
alone on simple cot, think
about the shell till she passes
into safe rest clutching that
which is hers, will always be
only hers.
Pure teeth through parted lips that taunt with ease: her unspoken words are no longer question but statement—“I am here for you if you can hold me. Please try.”
The arm on which she leans, her left arm, easily bears her whole weight. She’ll raise it, offer it to you, if you ask.