My parents tell it
like a bad joke
me, fatheaded
in a donut of neon plastic—
chin slack on the sun-warmed rim.
Twin sister, red as a tomato,
onshore & righteously three.
Dad looked away.
A seagull. A beer.
Something or other.
I began to float off—
quietly, quietly.
Just the sea,
doing what it does.
My sister saw me,
completely lost it.
Dad rushed out
and pulled me back in.
He and Mom laughed
like it was nothing.
(Oh, what fun
a day at the beach!)
And it was,
nothing.
—
Years later,
I find myself
drifting again—
but slower,
more insidiously,
into something
featureless.
It reads all over my body.
No one need ask.
It’s evident.
I lose myself,
slip through
my own hands
like putty—
days,
ideas,
reason—
all loose shards in deep water.
No one’s looking away this time.
They’re looking right at me.
I swim.
A stranger sea,
doing what it does.
Spencer Eckart is a poet based in Western North Carolina. His work is published or forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, The Dodge, Bruiser Mag, The Bulb Region, Pool Party, and more.
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