Little Pleasure

Morning is an orange
in the toe of a stocking
light falling in small
seeds on sand

It is not morning
at all, a man says,
see the sun wiggle
like a loose tooth?

That means it’s noon.

He sticks his hand in
my pocket and a soft­
brained bird dives
straight into waves.

Down the shore,
two young siblings
wrestle, writhing
until they buzz

deep sugar below
the belly button.

Shells stack into towns
for the waves to lap up.

My first eruption came
when I was four years old
rubbing against the beak
of a stuffed penguin

then, two cousins
removing our suits
shyly curious about
each other’s caves.

Mother crying
at the kitchen table.

Shame on the cutting
board for breakfast.

The sea claims the castle
into its hurried mouth.

I bat the child away and
he scurries down
the shoreline like ants
in a rainstorm.

There are many ways
to use the gift of fingers

three boys fly a single
red kite in the wind

It moves like a Flamenco
dancer and the boys

peek up her skirt.