The drive to the beach is long,
and I am prone to car sickness
but you tell me not to worry.
Our car snakes around the hills,
no straight lines,
and my stomach curls inward –
but then we see the cliffs,
bellies exposed, glowing golden
through filtered light. We make a fire,
smoke twisting in the breeze,
seeping into
our clothes and hair.
We skewer marshmallows on twigs,
hold them in the embers
til they blister and warp. The insides
melt hot and gooey
into my mouth.
Everything feels hazy.
We cover the remains with rocks
and it looks like we haven’t been here.
The cliffs are no longer glowing. I notice
how sharply they slide
into white capped murk.
I go to wash my hands and
the water pools quietly
beneath my feet.
It murmurs a question, a dilemma.
I pretend not to hear.