Birds dive for fish, backdropped by pink
haze. I watch them disregard breaking waves
and sink shamelessly for what they want.
Watermelon, two eggs, five dates. I run
my daily list of what I ate. A net negative,
I decide. I roll over onto my stomach,
eye-level with the sand. Crabs dart
between holes. So tentative, they scare
at the tapping of my fingers, at the light
of the sun—denial as self preservation.
My hunger soothes me. The tide tries
to outrun the waves. The sun transforms
into purple dots in front of my stubborn eyes.
Katey Linskey is a writer with poetry out and forthcoming in The West Review, Rise Up Review, and elsewhere. She draws from her experiences growing up in Boston and later living in India and Guatemala. She spent six years working in public health which continues to inform her work as a writer.