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Breakwater When I found myself on the shore, alone with the gulls and ghostcrabs, I was already old, lazy. So I became a breakwater for waves that pound the palisades. I sat in a canvas beach chair or smoked, leaning against the cliffs. Days, I dragged driftwood from all over the beach. The scrapings of rotted planks are still imprinted in the sand. A bonfire was what I was building. So when the tide came for me, I would have something. Nights I slept by the fire. I'd line up my collection of broken metal detectors and fishing rods like foreign flag poles. Then, I grew too old. At the end of my life my legs were whittled down by the tide, my knees like mossy rocks. I drowned like a fleshy fishweight. At the bottom I found my lost woman. A small white statue of a fertility goddess I threw into the sea when we lived on the dunes, my wife and children. I'd didn't know I had been looking for her. Pregnant eyes, eroded mouth, breasts like large acorns. I kissed her with my tongue until my lungs filled up. My last feeling is of shame Seeing the cliffs as they look underwater, and realizing that they were made of glass. I had kissed another woman. I'd forgot my children's names.
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