After a While, You Win: Death Pastoral

Someone else’s child, not you, is running and running down the beach. Both feet dig into the burning sand. Two others heave one yellow bucket full of sugar-brown seaweed, their twin suits flowering a conflation of pink over blue behind the water. So landmark cactus and landmine rock battlefield uphill toward the early moon’s white horse head and each wave collapses to your right, unsettles, shouting every half minute:have me, shhhh, have me, shhhh, halve me, shhhh