Becca's Book

Becca

  She tosses this question at the camera—“Am I young or old?”

  The answer seems obvious enough—hair like gold (try to touch it—absolute beauty burns like fire) tumbling to her waist; a face, skin, fresh as dew, radiant; lips, eyes that dance, don’t fear: what could she be but young, still safe?

  But wait, stare back at her awhile, see this—eyes mirroring a depth greater than even she knows, a depth like the sea unrolling, unrolling, unrolling.

  Last sun touches

  the lone human on the

  beach—a woman leaning

  over a shell half-

  buried in the dark sand

  near the water’s

  edge. She reaches and

  runs her fingers along the

  ridged white shell but

  won’t pick it up, won’t

  even move it. (She knows

  she doesn’t have the right.)

  But maybe through simple

  touch she can share in the

  knowledge it offers

  willingly

  to

  her

  salt fingertips.

  The transfer completed

  in silence, the sun gone—

  she straightens, looks fleetingly

  in this direction, turns and

  moves on, across white

  deserted beach.

  She’s gone too soon—off

  making Spartan dinner (tomato

  soup, crackers, cheese) for

  herself. Later to lie down

  alone on simple cot, think

  about the shell till she passes

  into safe rest clutching that

  which is hers, will always be

  only hers.

  Pure teeth through parted lips that taunt with ease: her unspoken words are no longer question but statement—“I am here for you if you can hold me. Please try.”

  The arm on which she leans, her left arm, easily bears her whole weight. She’ll raise it, offer it to you, if you ask.