trying

I grew up taking thunderstorms very seriously.
There was one tree taller than our house
with a lightning rod attached, this thick black wire,
grandfatherly to touch in daylight.
It was supposed to intercept the lighting
and pull it down into the ground, away from our house.
During really bad storms we slept in the basement
in my father's sleeping bags.
They smelled the same as all the things from before
he met my mother; like the inside of a snorkling mask.
I could never sleep down there,
I kept thinking about the soil on the other side
of the basement walls: we are sleeping underground.

a dream i had

you beach blonde darling
with roots like fake eyelashes
bold and unapologetic
you must know all the local waves,
the tide charts, which lifeguards
will look the other way
for a few coins and a well-timed smirk
you have trails of freckles
across your knees, over cheek bones,
a child of crimson and cerulean,
a daughter of pirates and of boardwalk merchants

What is it like for you
to belong to entire coastline?