In spring and summer the tides
roll softly onto shore.
You are drawn to the jagged stones
of the jetty to take inventory—
shell, bone, bottle, kelp
mixed with watery footsteps of those
who’ve already walked this path.

The backwash will never be bottled
and sold to anyone, anywhere.

No one will be given the task
of making anyone healthy
or rich from this water—
for surfing the waves, swimming
close to shore, screeches and screams
of delight, small crabs crawling up the beach
and sunblock overly sprayed and useless.

No one will go out on boats
to drink too much, shake some hands,
watch as the rudder cuts through light
making it blossom on both sides
of a deal that cannot be made today.
Not the cowboys—whiskey and water,
beer on the side, glacial melt
from winter cascades in their glasses,
Johnny Cash on the juke.

Not the clean-up groups
doing good, they bring their own water,
some so pure you can taste
all the wildflowers around all the springs
in all the lands,

and then the night fog-melt
throws kisses on the sea.
To the swells a mile away,
salty and sweet in balance.
We can’t see them but we can
taste them, ice bright as a lover’s heart,
sweet as the darkness of summer’s nights.

 

Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, KGB Bar Lit Mag, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Washington Square Review, and War, Literature and the Arts.  She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).