Back in my beach chair, Snow-Ices. It’s for him I and the men are playing volleyball and talking about dating. Comparing it to a hunting trip I think is what that blond one is doing. “Catch and release,” he coughs between big healthy gulps of beer. “That doesn’t even make a tiny bit of sense,” someone’s skinny girlfriend says. Oh, to be a piece of bait, all these women in stringy flower patterned suits, tiny stomachs and tans exactly the opposite of leather, or Styrofoam, or whatever mine’s become. To be caught.
Roddy is gone, but it’s for him I still eat these
overhear this male nonsense, for him that I relax each day with the sun obliterating my skin and my hair and this quickly melting paper cone. For him that I move closer to the water, plant my chair firmly in the wake and let the ocean erase my feet, my ankles. It’s for him I refill this canteen, for him that my chair and I will eventually float away.