Poetry by Suzy Harris
She rises and brushes the sand off her thighs,
strides into the turquoise sea up to her knees,
then dives into the waves, gliding long strokes,
the hot sun searing parts of her not underwater.
The boys watch her return to the sand.
One is brave enough to ask her to ride out with him
on the boat. They all go—her friends and his.
Now the sun is bearing down and she has no hat,
just a thin shirt over her swimsuit.
He dives down, brings up oysters.
They eat them raw with beer and the tiny limes
they call limones, the salty juice
dripping into the bottom of the boat.
In this memory, nothing but sea and sky,
skin speckled with salt water,
empty beer bottles,
and the breathless briny kiss of raw oysters.
Suzy Harris was born and raised in Indianapolis as the fifth of seven siblings. She has lived her adult life in Portland, Oregon, and is a retired attorney. Her poems have appeared in CALYX, Clackamas Literary Review, Oyster River Pages, Rain, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, Windfall, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband have two adult children who live in Portland, one dog, and a granddog.