a thunderstorm slipped over the beach and out to sea. gray rain sluiced down venous trees and gray ocean waves stretched up as though they might meet and kiss in the middle of the sky, two halves of one moon touched heart broken by the sun. after a downpour- after the dark and the thunder- the sand is always packed firm, more determined to hold onto the imprint of everything that has passed: light loops of gull feet, cursive scuttles from carapaced crabs, the careful semicolon from a woman’s sandal. and everywhere, over the white glass amnion, bundles of curly seaweed perfume the breeze with salt.
Elisheva Fox is a mother, lawyer, and writer. She braids her late-blooming queerness, Texan sensibilities, motherhood, and faith into poetry. Some of her other pieces can be found in Touchstone Literary Magazine, 805lit, Screen Door Review, and Jewish Book Council’s forthcoming edition of Paper Brigade