Shawn McLain
WetOne week in August we delivered our bodies
to the Atlantic Ocean, felt cells burn and fall
off permeable skin from thick saline, penned
our names into sand, and watched the skeletons
of suicide shells wash ashore, no shine, glint,
or blind white light bounced to our eyes,just dull remnants to step over. And our remarks
were shadow-stopped by cloud cover, rain rolled
across the view of our pupils, dense with promiseto ruin the day; we knew it would fall eventually.
When lightning flash after flash blinked bleak
we bent our backs, ran to the car, and sighedknowing we didn't have the money to come back,
to pay for parking, gas, food and drinks. At home
we pulled the curtains, turned on all the lights,the televisions, the dishwasher, the washer
and dryer, and then we took a shower together.
We tried to ignore the mound of sand collectingaround the drain as we fondled each other, but
I wondered if you saw the shell in the tub, or noticed
how desperately it tried but could not sink away.
Bio:
Shawn McLain is a student of English at Southeast Missouri State University. He is heavily involved with the local writing collective, Prescription Strength Poetry. Previously published by 2River View, Lunarosity, Journey, and Asinine Poetry. Forthcoming work in Big Muddy. Editor of the online literary webzine, Ligature. Loves coffee. Hates sleep.
