undoing

—Listen as she sings the mold from memory. Sonia Sanchez

it's grey when i head out
today, the morning still
carrying a marine layer,
heavy and wet, i walk
with the heaviness of the
sky, i walk with a desire
to singe disquiet, i walk
with memories seeking
expulsion

it is 7:56 and already
the beach is filled with
east coast tourists happy
to be near the sea, and even
this early they are stripped 
down to bare feet and bikinis
playing scoreless volleyball
squealing, diving into sand
while kids on summer
vacation build sand
castles alongside
bedhead sleepy parents 
holding thermoses of hot
coffee that fog dusty glasses

even the boardwalk is long
awake, full of joggers
trying to outrun
cyclists who are trying
to outcycle scooters

my disquiet keeps me out of pace
with the vibe of this place, and
yet i stay, shuffling in sandals
picking up every grain of sand

dodging the leashless dogs,
i hug to the right, with an up-close
view of beachside bungalows
where swimsuits airdry
on the backs of patio chairs

and though i'm taking it in from
all sides and my peripheral vision
is on high alert, i am not prepared
for the headphoned purple
haired grandma who walks
right in front of me

nearly into me, across boardwalk 
traffic, breaking all the rules, she
is bound for the beach, determined 
to reach the water, whatever it
takes 

her eyes are other-worldly, i
crave her wildness, her certainty 

i watch her make her way to
the sea, dip her toes, splash
her face, a homespun ritual, 
and as if she has willed
with her wonder, the grey begins
to burn away

and i take the hint and kick off
my sandals

and run through the sand, wild
toward the sea and the sun,
each leap a kind of undoing

Dr. Tara W. Zafft, writer and educator, is most recently Winner of the Moonlit Getaway Poetry Prize. She has published her work in several anthologies and literary journals. She has a BA in Russian Literature from UC San Diego and a Ph.D. in Modern Languages from the University of Bath, UK.