Imagining the Endless Beach With Mary
by
Jane Ulrich
If I could divorce myself I would
(Oh the lie of suicide, thinking that’s the end!)
But I might lock the kids in the cellar
and blast music by Beethoven or Nirvana
to mask the screams, unplug
all the phones, lock the outside doors
and imagine behind my snapped shut eyes
ocean waters and a long white beach.
Not the sorry grey sand and water
of Long Island Sound, crammed
with the cold waste of the Big City,
pieces of toilet paper, the odd syringe,
but something clear and blue as the summer sky,
something warm as the oven cooling down,
as endless as my own lone self,
except my sister Mary is there too
sitting in the folding chair next to me.
Water laps at our feet until the sun
disappears, along with the contents
of the bottle, a very big bottle,
as big as the sun and the ocean
we are now a part of.
We know our mom is there too
admiring the fading colors of the setting sun
(Ah this is the life!) and our dad is glad
we are together, his two girls, catching our breath
in this inebriated peace.
We have no regard for time or caring for anyone
but one another, and that is all we know,
until the crab bites our bare toes
or the turtle appears hissing in surprise
and we laugh so hard we pee in our pants
too drunk to care and not caring anyway
because it is only my sister Mary and me
and everything is fine in this vast universe.
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