Mud Flats

© Elizabeth Larrabee

The scrubby field slopes

under a misery of power lines

down to the river

where, at low tide,

mud flats ooze into unknown depths.

Hissing mollusks spurt geysers

from soft, blacker-than-black muck.

Breezes laden with scents

only clams in the raw can dispense

flare my nostrils,

fill my lungs

with that Beverly smell.

Sniffing deep,

I tread on plankton footprints

and jagged shells,

my blood mixing with the residues

of prehistoric slime.

Seaweed swirls around my thighs.

Currents rush past my belly

in threatening wavelets,

goading me on until the salty

brine spritzes into my smile.

I think of dill pickles

and wonder if I'll make it

out to the swaying orange buoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Nine and fearless.

I swam alone.

But the tide has turned.

© Elizabeth Larrabee

Earliest Recall | Lady Slippers | How Poor Were We? | Free Food

The Smaller The Bigger | Mud Flats | Speaking of Smells | Random Pieces

Growing Up the Hard Way  | No Bogey Man | Green Apples | Poor Buster

Up and Down | True Friends | Moving | Rosie's Hangout | Crystal Ball

You weren't so Hot After All | Haunts | On Acting the Way You Feel | Amen

E-Mail Liz Larrabee