What I Know About the Beach
by Catherine Montague
 
Here's a smooth log for backrest.
I spread my towel, downwind,
no sisters nearby to kick sand my way.
Alone, I pull off my boots with care.
No sand settles inside.
I can't recall
learning these arrangements for the beach,
keeping the sand in its place
and me in homelike comfort.
You taught me long before I had words
for meeting the salt water,
smelling the kelp's tendrils,
snatching a sand crab before
it burrowed beyond my reach.
I know the stories: how I stayed
in fog-gray water until my teeth
clacked together behind blue lips,
how the surf tossed me like
a castoff bottle, but never
convinced me that I was
different than a shorebird or harbor seal.
I don't need words to recall those first years
when you nested us in the sand,
fed and sheltered us, watched me
run to catch the foam
again and again.
Thank you, mom, for taking me
to the beach.