On Tanner Beach

Rick Kempa

On Tanner Beach,

wind sculpted a

thousand wavelets.

For each, the moon

etched a thin black

line. Boulders blazed

like whales breaching.

A driftlog lolled,

an upturned hull.

We shed our clothes

and lay down side

by side. Sand beat

against my flank

from heel to head.

“It hurts!” I howled.

It scoured our

bellies—you laughed.

“It tickles!”—then

filtered down along-

side you in a ridge

that held your shape:

toes, thigh, hip, breast.

We grasped hands,

felt cleansed.