I must begin making my list
of succulents, aloe’s green salve
spread across the pox of sunburn
while I scratch sand from my scalp,
leftovers from an afternoon of salt
sandwiched between two slices of rye.
I like my lunch late after the air warms
and the sun turns its face downward.
I like my supper when the sand
no longer burns the soles of my feet.
The skin on my legs and arms
is pink and raw and stings to touch,
but is so close to you,
radiating like a sunburned child
who’s left her basket just below the tide.