Loss of Identity
written by: Lori Marchesin
I was a tiny, sandy beach in a former life. I loved it,
never complained though the ocean had carte blanche on me –
he played rough in all seasons, but I endured water slaps,
swallowed salty rage, stored sea stars, heaped weeds behind
my rocky shoulders while crabs tickled my skin.
It was good when sunny days sent children to play with me.
They sat, cross-legged, and made me into a castle with stick-towers
and seashells or patted me smooth to play marbles. Once they shaped
me into a woman with legs, a face with no mouth, clams for eyes.
It was yesterday or a life ago when a cormorant flew and perched
on the rock that used to mark my place, he shrieked to my sand
legs pulled away and swallowed by him, the mighty ocean.
I still hear the wind’s whistles, the breaking of errant thundering,
the heavy galloping of waves taking away what is left of me.
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