Poetry by Gabe Durham
1
At the shore, feet in sand, looking down
as an old wave recedes
and a new one bubbles past:
standing still at its most blockbuster.
Kelp, after being called seaweed
for the millionth time, finally snaps.
But we are seaweed, says its mother.
What’s a mother, says the kelp.
2
A girl flies a kite.
A second girl, piloting a drone, films the kite.
A third girl, piloting an SLR camera, films the first girl,
whose beauty is its own kind of kite.
We can picture how good this will look
cut together with music,
though we are unfortunately
here in person.
3
Now celebrating 100 years of tourists
surprised the Pacific is cold,
you don’t need a firecracker pop exactly
but you need to know if that man sells them.
Staring out at the horizon where the water
meets the sky, you accept your mortality
as a rejoining. Next thought: No one
gives me credit for my depths.
4
I went looking for a perfect grain of sand
and found it. It got away from me
so I found another. Then a wave came.
What a great day.
The sun and the beer
and the salt and those planes
really blitzed me from all sides.
Was I charming?
Gabe Durham is the author of FUN CAMP, BIBLE ADVENTURES, & MAJORA’S MASK. He lives in Los Angeles and edits Boss Fight Books.
Arcturus 