The ocean wants your body, last
year. Not this year. Things
were different then.
The ocean wants your ribbed chest, your
fear of shells, high tide, the cycle of it. And tired, then,
you, spread on the dry towel, finished.
The ocean sings on an empty stomach, this
high noon, these little swells, this hot hunger. You let her push you
and push you, and correct her gently. Waves
and waves on an empty stomach. She licks
the salt from the french fries, the sand from your knuckle. Presses
up against the dunes, spoons the shore, hollows it out.
The ocean asks you to come back, waves
and waves. Pulls everything in as far as she can. Waves
and waves, openmouthed, ripples, but swallows sand.
The ocean wanted this
to go differently. Tired, then,
she draws back, laying like a dog.
The ocean wants you, last
year. Once you were there. Once,
she had you, held you, turned you
over like a stone. Not this year. Waves
and waves, and things
were different then.
Anna Popnikolova is a first-year at Harvard College, and a member of the Harvard Advocate’s poetry board. She was born and raised on Nantucket Island, off the coast of Massachusetts, and is still getting used to life in the city. Her work has been previously published in TeenInk, Veritas newspaper, and The WEIGHT Journal. She is the founder and president of Farewell Poetry Festival, which is an annual summer poetry festival on Nantucket.