Summer at the Bay

Dad built the fire
on the beach
while we took our pails
out on the salty flats
searching for sand dollars

we stomped close
to quarter inch holes in packed sand
one foot on each side
watching water shoot up
from the panic deep below

the sun set and we lounged
in miles of tidal pools
heated by washboard rippled ridges
four inches
of hot tubbing bliss

running out further to the waves
rinsing off the crusty scratching
a shock of cold
from the incoming tide at dusk
back to our towels

wrapped around shoulders
hunched on the bleached logs
pushed to land by last winter’s storms
hands stretched towards
the flame

marshmallows roasted
on the end of straightened
coat hangers
perfectly rotated brown for mom
or spectacular balls of fire

peeling away one layer to roast again
a single marshmallow went
three rounds
slipped off skins of charred sweetness
before walking up the hill to bed

I’m Taking a Poll

would you like my poetry
more, or less

if you knew I sometimes
write naked?

L. Lois lives in an urban hermitage where trauma-informed themes flow during walks by the ocean. She is pivoting through her grandmother-era, figuring out why her bevy of adult children don’t have babies, nor time. Her essays have appeared in the Globe and Mail, her recent poetry In Parentheses and Woodland Pattern.