She heard a fish song rising out
of seaweed. She misunderstood.
She thought it called her by name.
So she dove in, head first, her good
dress ruined. The fish still proclaimed
its tail, ignored her splash, her shout.
(And the song, all waves and driftwood,
meant nothing human, just a game
of water, gills and silt, without
any sound, really--only plain
beach tones. And it wasn’t about
her, no, it only told fish-hood)
A damp girl, plugged ears red with shame
sits sandy on a beach, wrung out.
The tide retreats, shells blink. She should
brush off her butt and leave without
a glance back at the waves. She would,
but, well, that fish did call her name.