“kelp.” by Elisheva Fox

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
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