We are at the end of the world, Mare and I,
at the rim of the ice dark Atlantic, its chill curls
lapping at our toes.
I’ve spent July with sweaty arms tight round my waist, and Mary claims I taught her all the words
she’s not supposed to know. She’s going to marry Christ, and not some ordinary boy.
Late summer’s lick of winter ruffles our hair. We should go in.
I say how romantic those shacks out along the point, Mare, how poignant they are, strung to their
Laur, she says sensibly, it would be prettier without them.
We sat on that curve of beach, when we were twelve,
where civilization crept out among the sand pipers
on sad loops of utility lines.
© by Laurie Joan Aron.
Used with the author's permission.