When you were small you would press your toes into the sand,
wiggle them, enjoy the grittiness. You would race to scoop it up,
falling away through all your fingers, heap it up onto your bodies,
press your downy legs together, pack it down tight till there were
no more legs, only the torsos of gods emerging from
a thousand years of see-sawing sea on rocks.
Then, you’d kick up those legs, whose I couldn’t tell,
tentacles failing, shaking off tails, leaving fine sand-papery skin.
How to save that skin now?

I will lie you both down softly in the tall grasses that speak
like waves. I will press your downy legs together, clasp your hands
so you know you’re safe, you have each other. And then I will
pluck the strands of green that remind me of rain, I will pluck
the foxgloves, the buttercups, wild geranium, even dandelions.
I will pull together this posy, scatter it over your cold, church-like
tombs. I will dress you, bathe you in apple green dewy leaves.
I will let little crawlies find the nooks and crannies of you both,
make friends with your pixie nose, your dimpled chin. When
only your heads remain, I will crown you both with daisies,
close your eyes, kiss you in turn, then let the blossom-filled
branches touch your faces, hide them. With time you will sink
into the soil, soothed by its silt. It will pack down tight till
there are no more legs, not even the torsos of gods. Then,
I will give in to the sun, let the blood-red sky eat me.