by Corinne Elysse Adams
I left my right shoe on the shore
in the clammy winter sand
of Chigasaki beach, where
we tried to race while holding hands.
The ocean swallowed my blue glasses, too,
when I gave in to the waves,
so we kicked up seaweed hullabaloo
to wake ship-shaped ghosts from Meiji graves.
We watched the half-forms dance on water
as if attending some grand Noh performance
with long-dead actors, muted voices disinterred;
we draw together from cold, forget past mistakes—
walking hand in hand, along the quay, blind
and barefoot; the sea always gives as it takes.
Corinne Elysse Adams is a tumbleweed poet who grew up between Texas and Japan, which has possibly instilled in her some contrasting hankerings. Last year, she finished her master’s degree in creative writing at the University of Edinburgh, and while there won a Dorothy Sargent-Rosenburg poetry prize. She has a piece forthcoming in The Foundling Review. Her favorite plant is the blooming prickly pear, and she currently lives in Austin, where she is writing her first novel, playing music, digging in the dirt, and doing yoga. She rambles now and then at http://scarfbrigader.blogspot.com.