Waverly

Waves aren’t all she makes —

Sounds, too

Her smile unwrapping in the dark like secret tinfoil

Her sandy footprints on the creaking

Bleach-wood boardwalk

And the juicy drip of mango that missed the bucket we hunched over

She flexes her toes when

Stretched out on her dune kingdom for the afternoon

Lipton for her, Coke for me

Words come slow from too much sun and corn sugar

And the freckle on her upper lip is my whole horizon

Shells crunch

And she’s wading out past the breakers

Making waves of her own

She’s never doubted

That even a small someone can trouble the sea.

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