Beer Froth Waves
Around us churn beer froth waves. I lick them to see what they taste like and get a tongue of salt. The type a proper chip shop uses, the type that makes you parched as sand.
I turn onto my back, spread star-wide and put my ears underwater. It glugs in and out of my earholes as if it wants to chat, but I can’t speak sea.
Above the sun cries, in screeches of heat that pinch. It seeks out my skin, wants to twist it crispy and red as a scab.
On either side are cliffs, full of noses and chins. In their dips are lost feathers amongst twigs, curved and held tight by spit.
Right beneath are the swimmers. Some have shells, some have fins, some have barbs, some have only us on their minds.
Beside me is her, a long shadow topped with hair. If I stretch I can touch her, starfish to starfish. She’s my net and my anchor, depending on the day.