I only want
to experience
it

one more time
the way I did
when I was 14.

The way I loved
merry-go-rounds
as a small child.

More! More! Before
I became so desperate
to jump off, utterly unable

to let go
of the horse. The one I rode
for over two decades

was all glass
and Polish vodka bottle shaped.
The more I loved it

as it galloped me
on water-worn limbs
further into the dark

spiral in the center
of everything, the more
I needed to ride it

till I ground its legs
down to their silica
granules of origin.

And that spot behind
the beach cottage garage
among the ripening

rose hips where those handmade
cedar shingle swings hung
from the sky—one for each

of us three girls.
That’s where I learned
the whole purpose of a swing

is to get higher

and higher.

It’s never enough. Whisper
euphoric recall into the ear
of another conch shell

as we stand, feet safely secured
in the sand,
till the next storm

washes it all
away. And then we do it
all over again

with the ruined beauty
of the dunes
our relentless guide.