Song

In novels, teenagers long on beaches, wear black glasses
to hide their crying eyes, and fall in love with friends who
have already betrayed them. The sand is a consciousness
on their skin, the wind doesn’t factor in. I love the summering

drama and the smart of paradise, trading secrets in the gossamer
constitution of girlhood. I come home late in the night to anger
and accusations. A soft rain that paints cold my hair. Nobody
knows about Long Island beaches here, the disgusting men after whom

our shores are named. I sit a room away from an argument, turn
over the poetry anthology from Gaza and the West Bank. On their ruins,
Palestinians stand with their phones in the air hoping to catch a signal
so they may sign off on an English translation. I count the pay periods

until I can again afford donating to mutual aids. For no reason, Plath
enters my mind. It can talk talk talk, will you marry it marry it marry it.
The poem can’t be anything but indulgent, isn’t that always the rub.
Sometimes a child walks into the sea. Wave foam soaks like human spit.