Lined up on the back seat
going home
from the beach
and squirming,
forced to create a continuity
of form on the station wagon’s
blue vinyl bench
like a school
of smoked whiting
arranged one-by-one
on a delicatessen tray
under smeared windows
without cohesive substance,
except for arms and legs,
stuck to the blue vinyl.
Also accepted for publication by
Burnt Bridge.
Escape
Striped canvas,
gypsy’s tarot tent.
She’s floating
on seaweed dreams.
She moves through flip-flops,
cotton-candy saturated air,
oil and sweat colliding.
Rusted dodge-cars swerve,
avoiding near misses.
She swims in a cul-de-sac
among swaying hips
wishing someone would
toss her a life-preserver.
Taffy-toned dusky-eyed boys:
Bunsen-burners, simmering,
stirring, pouring on sun-lotion lines.
Her pearly lips smile.
She flounders in the sweet undertow
of words.
A stem-of-a-girl, a reed,
under developed
in the murky depth-of-field,
a stow-away,
she drifts aboard a seagull solitude,
escaping the leviathan on shore.
Wanting
Rummaging dresser drawers,
flinging out mismatched tops and bottoms,
I unearth a swimsuit,
long since grown too small:
bumping along on the back seat,
we head to the ocean;
feet touch down gingerly,
on to the searing gravel, the beach,
scattering fiddler crabs,
on the loose;
we dip toes into coolness,
then recoil.
Cousins from New York,
who never learned to swim,
splashing, whining,
mutineers
of our desperation,
the waterline of disappointment rises,
hand-me-down, second-hand, tired,
Bapcia bakes, sweats,
too many mouths,
not enough love,
to satisfy all the want.
The distant dock floats, tranquil,
in the water every summer,
and we continue to fight
over the one black inner-tube.
Sunny
They would go fishing
in a row boat.
That was how they shared.
Later, things changed
as adolescence struck,
and challenges came
face-to-face.
Still, the sunfish were
spilled from a bucket,
after being held briefly
in the air to admire,
released to carry on
with their buoyant lives.
Leaning
on the boardwalk railing,
she glances down
at her sweaty,
tentacle fingers
enveloping a wax paper cup
of melting ice cubes.
She’s urged
by a small boy’s elbow
jabbing her side,
to look up at a streamer
floating
from a slow bi-plane.
Her freshly painted
mascara eyes
gaze upward.
Clearly unimpressed,
she tosses her dark hair
over sunburnt shoulders.
Hungry, she says: “I want a . . .”
“I want you!” Some gawking guy
drools out the sun-lotion words.
She swims in them.
~~~~~~~~
Lynn Fanok is a poet and aspiring musician who grew up in New Jersey, and was introduced to the seaside at an early age. Her recent return to graduate school reignited her interest in writing poetry. She has written a collection of poems about family, history, and memory. Her poetry has appeared in
Burnt Bridge, and is forthcoming in
Oak Bend Review. Lynn currently lives in lovely Bucks County, Pennsylvania.