Muscles in her face
contract crosswise,
as if hiding anger
with fake indifference.
She is too proud. But her skin is thin,
like scum. I can see
veins bursting out.
Without bones the tendons have no anchor.
She tries to tense and they only drift,
and fray into the sand. I can see--
she wants to be a league deep
where no one can see. But whatever she covers
dredges back up. Her veil rips,
and slips into the sand.
Once, I saw a placid patch,
wading in the shallows. I bent
to skim it, and it wrapped around.
It was a piece of plastic,
as clear and flat against the sky
as the sea. Maybe she was glad
to have a graft of skin. I turned,
and threw it back in.