I pull you out of my memory’s pocket. Sit you back down in powdery sand to dig. You are three.

The six o’clock sky is a melted caramel. I marvel at pelicans soaring in slow motion across a

canvas of playful peach and magenta strokes.  As if God pitied me, there is no

one else on this March evening. Earlier that day, hatted old people had dotted the shore.

Some stopped, some writhing their hands at you, face down in the

water. I could not get to you fast enough, my legs were swollen

and heavy. Mama has lost one hundred and one pounds

now, baby. I could make it to you fast enough

               now. Damn autism. Damn Asperger’s.

Baby, every time I used to get you

near the ocean,

you went

               limp.

I tell you, now, I understand the world is loud. For you, too. These waves in the distance that you can ignore,

now that you are safely digging shore, crash so hard and approach so fast! I wish I could go back and

torch this fat. Now that I have made this muscle, I can grab you before you float into the pier.

I can keep the blood from pouring from your tan little arm as it was ripped by

barnacles. With my new strong legs. With my new strong arms. I lift you.

              I can hold you for as long as you need me to, baby. Mommy has

her sea legs now. I can be the post to your jelly posture.

I could prevent your belly from protruding by

avoiding gluten. Your crystal blue eyes,

like the ocean, swim with sharks

of worry. Mommy will

now spear those

bastards.