by Edie Meade

Pressed on through a drift of Styrofoam pebbles on my way to the beach.
Felt like crying but didn’t; cranked the radio to live with the burn.
Live inside the burn. The sky is acid-wash, fresh-skinned before the fade.
How profound the simple things are: sea, sky, death, it’s always death with me,
sussing life’s fractions out to the lowest common denominator.
By 2050, every seabird will eat plastic. I can relate.
Sometimes I think the planet seethes at what we’ve done; we had so much time—
but I’m projecting. Microplastics barnacle my artery walls.
No one wanted this. I wish we could repay the pipers with beach. Still,
container ships, quilted like shanty towns, wash to blue in the distance
and the shells look like Lee Press-Ons lost in struggle. A gorgeous crime scene.
Come a day I can’t find the beauty in the beast, I’ll cease to exist.
For now, the sea goes on tossing in her sleep, remembering, forgetting,
hot flashes cooking silver fish in the only world they’ve ever known.

Edie Meade is a writer in Petersburg, Virginia. She has been recently published in Room Magazine, Invisible City, The Harvard Advocate, JMWW, The Normal School, and Litro. Edie is can be found on Twitter, Instagram,  and Threads. Her website is ediemeade.com.