I was on the ocean with my Floridian aunt,
Arms growing red from invisible rays,
Legs straining from keeping the water beneath me.

Our only objective: strong even strokes
Her: with two grapefruit tumors in her belly.
As the salt air drains my open eyes of their vitality.
(Here, I sleep as I never do.)

And I begin to see people as very old and very new
New- like the way the dinosaurs were before the meteor struck and-
Old the way they are now
Primitive and youthful in our movements,
With skin like wood and knowing how the past tastes.

Birth should be orange and we should be running to it.
We are barely part of dawn and yearn to graze it with our fingertips.
Maybe that is what is past the mangroves.
But my aunt has two grapefruit tumors,
And my tired eyes are pulling on the rest of my body.
We need to get home in time to pick up my cousin.

So we strain and grow
To keep from becoming the blue pressing in on us.
Tonight I will sleep as I never do
And dream of touching a mango sun