-Belonging to both ends of the universe-

The drive home from Horseneck Beach

Was different than the drive on route to Horseneck Beach.

On the way, it’s a race with the sun; the windows are open

And the heavy Buick, with its suspension built for comfort

Rather than stability, glides as if sailing over route 6 east

Dipping its blunted nose at the ornament with every bump

Of the tar-filled cracks in the asphalt's cadence under its wheels.

Sweet snacks, sandwiches and soda, lay on ice inside the cooler

In the trunk we can’t get to.

I think about undertows;— the kid last summer

And the ambulance that took him away, moving slow enough

That we knew he was done-for.

I fear the fierce Portuguese Man-of-War stinging the living

Shit out of me, releasing its spit of poison, and me,

Still sitting on the blanket eating half a tuna sandwich,

and dipping my free hand into a bag of potato chips.

I fear sinking like a stone from cramps
Like the kid last year they fished from the water.

We’ll get to the beach about 11:00 o’clock.

Park the car. Get the stuff out of the trunk.

We never owned a beach umbrella.

My brother’s young enough to have a pail and shovel.

My sister’s old enough to consider the sniffing boys

Who spot her like the revving engines of a hot Chevy coupe.

Fuck it! Fuck the fierce jellyfish!

I’m going in with a fast approach, bellyflopping

Knee-deep in the surf, head’s-up to keep the salt-
Water out of my mouth.

The drive home is quiet and uncomfortably damp.
Sand becomes an irritant.

The ocean’s powdered its salt across our skin.

After the baths when night closes in,
We remember that this is the place we come from.

Table's filling-up in the active kitchen.
Evening blends itself into everything. 
Floor lamps are clicked to light.

Television’s warming-up with static interference, the echo
Of the birth of the universe coming home from the beach.

Quequechan, 1953