a description of the moment before you see the ocean

1.
the car ceiling is made of foam.
pressing upwards our hands go through
& dip into the blue outside like finger paints.

2.
remembering a story a friend told about
a boy who brought her sea shell after sea shell
saying nothing. a pile of sea shells at her feet.
stepping on sea shells.

3.
eight years ago i was floating
facing the unpeeled sun while it tried
to make a fireplace of my skin.

4.
skipping a stone & watching that hardness
become part of the folding. mom folding towels
on her bed. a friend folding her laundry 
on the ground of a dorm room.

5.
saying we should drive to the ocean 
when really i mean i'm tired & i want to see
the end of the earth.

6.
taking a drinking glass to the air.
gulps of salt. taffy coming in through 
the car window. a collective chewing.

7.
i lay in bed & sometimes my blankets mimic 
the motion of waves--they lap my body.
the fan moves them like a breeze
over water. there are bird wings 
in the room. there are deeps blues.

8.
my mom knitted me a dress from a sunset once.
she sat down on the porch & pulled yarn
from those spilled colors. i put the dress on
in a temporary room that smelled like july
& we drove towards the sand.

9.
like throwing a drinking glass against a wall.
like smashing an ice cube with a stone fist.
like clutching sand in both fists.
like asking the sun to come back when it's too late.
like bare feet bare feet.

10.
someone tells us to keep our eyes closed
so we walk with our arms outstretched
feeling for the nearby depth. the call 
of a glistening world. 
weep for ourselves & all the other gill-less animals. 
holding our breath.