by Justin Lowe

she keeps having to gather
up the hem like a drunk bride.

it has become second nature already,
a reluctant genuflection to the gods of sand and sea.

it is the sheerest cotton,
the kind the wind likes best.

when we reach the water’s edge
she arches her back and throws up her arms

and lets the wind take it from her
while the sand hisses and the little waves titter.

She came to stay

complicating matters this long, grey week
has been your unwavering conviction
that the girl has to go.

you have made her, thus, your problem not mine.