Megan Kaminski



The coast


Down south the coastline crunches
rock-strewn wind-buried sand-showering
faces squinting eyes into secret coves
I have secrets too         of beaches and long
days spent and not   sand clinging to toes
and clothes and too many beached days
water-bound and sun-bleached
names spelled in small white rocks
parking lots emptied filled again
and again waking to salt spray




The hills


Cows and cloud and pick-up trucks
ring the hillside swaddling coastal
air as we climb towards the ridge
ocean lined with green lined with
rock   rooftops below concentric
tree and long gravel roads   watching
here and here and here as helicopters
carry tourists through the valley



The cloud forest


Cloud coats us—shoulders hands
and arms at higher altitude
trees do not grow tall
no trunk-creak in the evening
nor afternoon shadows across field
           lava-lined riverbed in the valley
ohias flowering red from lichen-dripped
branches calling bird-song closer




The Pacific


They threw me in early    baby lungs
wrangling breathe from water    baby gills
grew on my sides filtering for further
exploration    coming up only for school
sleep and sundries   the coast stretching south
tides dragging small creatures in and out         
memorizing paths under moonlight
under morning fog
                                  yearly return
limbs long and light     the water carries me
in it I am endless I am a finite thing
cells exchanging one for another
brain bumping against bone
against tissue against water