by Amelie Maurice-Jones

fissures in the sand are parted
by water, which reminds me of

the wizened cheekbones and
peachy indents of an
old man selling watermelon.

mia’s dress is lined with
white fish in royal lilac,
fluttering in the sea-
breeze like icing sugar, her

hair erupts in threads as she
dives and is already all the way out her dress

peels into blue. like a
lizard’s spine, stones whet the
slope and flush marmalade with


i am waiting for nothing.

by now the sand is fudgey;
mia is going to build a
hedgehog out of shells.

i’ll help her.

i’ll haul the waves
straight back home.