The last time I felt it, my body small
and hard as a gulls’ egg
washed and brown by the bay, my sister
moved wide and spinning
through a white whirlwind of sopping foam–
dropped down,

on hilltops, me bigger now,
confused, but still following her little feet
whispering through daffodils.
We crawl to the edge of the earth.

I do it now–
  crawl. Push my awkward body
stupidly beneath picnic benches,
through sticky firs,
trek circles around war monuments,
knees shunting through the grass.

I drop to catch my breath,
hot and ashamed, the green rasp
against my palms I call back,
  call and call
beneath a cry of creamy gulls,
a woman now, silky-thighed
with poppies inked on her ankles,
  searching for home.


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