SPF 2016

Scott Wordsman

Pain and shame come out the same

between your teeth

when you are sleeping. On

the beach, an anklet-toting teen

talks herself out of deepening

water. The sand has over-

splayed its welcome, remains

the greatest mess of minced

glass and assuaged ash

this side of sea. I am stepping

on my father––I am dying

for a suntan. Across the pool

of my iris, two blues fight it out.

Does this assert finality?

Tomorrow, my skin will echo

the red of the cyclical stain

you’ve left in the bed.