A sinuous sea-serpentine red road, red like spilt sanguine
fluid, red like rust, red like sun-stained
dune. Enter saltwater-taffy
spindrift that tugs on the scalp, Atlantic-imbued
breeze that reels in wayfaring, landloping
young mermaids, calling them
home. I jump the whitecap waves,
land legs firmly in the churning froth
like the great concrete goliath
who straddles Northumberland
first landed in the frozen
strait. I name my goldfish
after some of the terracotta strands: Stanhope,
Rustico, Argyle.

Memory is washed-out. In that decade we
were shade-faded, pop-triangled,
denimed, scrunchied,
Kodachrome-patient. Errant campfire
sparks dance through the black,
two-stepping ceilidh
silhouettes. A brazen red fox
steals away with a jelly
sandal. Somehow these memory shards
together form a person. Battered
boardwalk feet, a lobster-trap
belly, green-gabled head.

Like the tide, I will always return.