tuna salad by the sea

By Coral Inéz

At midday, under the shade of lifeguard tower number three
I settle on my old parched blanket that I'm too fond of to replace.
I open a roll of saltines and eat one, upside down because
I like to feel the grains of sea salt on my tongue. I also brought
a tuna salad, made with onions, celery, and organic mayonnaise.
This beach reminds me of another, distant in both place and time, 
for a while I let myself get lost on a soft hued reverie. Lately 
my heart's been kind of achy, sore, homesick. I finish my salad.

I have this recurring dream of a wooden house and a field of red 
wildflowers. Before my mind dares posit that it may in fact
be a memory, I take off my espadrilles and 
walk into the sea. The water is cold, too cold, I walk 
until my thighs are underwater, exactly at that spot where 
my fingers brush the surface, then a little more 
until I feel it in my chest, the water embraces 
me, her wayward daughter, and I
I let her wash away every trace of every thing I ever lost. 

Coral is a Mexican poet living in Southern California, “wildflower” (2024) is her first poetry collection.