First Time on Earth

The San Juan waves are engulfing me. You are the sandal,

a hoof dug into the shore, holding your breath as I wither

into blue. Wince as the salt water stretches out into sky.

I float through the waves, further from the sand, hanging

windchimes in your throat. I hear a melody

through the wind. I’m fine! I shout as I swim

back to Earth. Rising from the watermelon

towel, you say, I was worried you were going to drown.

I laugh and pour you another drink. 

I’m worried you’ll never enjoy the water.

Your fingerprint is stuck to the orange sky. Watching the geese

paddle across the lake. Should we have chicken and rice

for dinner? I ask, feeling my stomach weighed down 

by the atmosphere overtaking me. A blank stare.

Isn’t the Earth so pretty? you say. I envy

the Earth’s allure, evergreen as the folds 

of a burnt envelope. Being a witness to grief in a body

still learning how to be.

On a morning walk, we pass the body of a dog,

idle by a cloud of sea foam on the wet sand.

From afar, he was a log for a seagull to rest, a dusty

rock to exchange kisses with the waves. Moving closer, I see 

his four long legs sticking out. We had seen dogs run these beaches,

collarless and kind to the visitors, but I hadn’t noticed the thinness

of their bodies, rib cages trying to poke past skin. We fly home the next 

day, and I give your roommate's Chihuahua the chicken

legs that I can’t finish. I pat her on the head and crash

into your bed, trying to forget the dead dog alone on the shore.

Back at the campgrounds as a child, I left the trick-or-treat bash early

and fell flat in my grandmother’s tent. My eyes dwindled on a pillow

printed with prickling pineapples, and I listened to the leaves flying

in the October wind, just trying to focus on the book in my hand. 

My fingers ran gently under my armpit, finding one bump, trailing

quietly to more down my ribs. I could’ve sworn the tent was closing in,

suffocating me. I zipped open the entrance from the floor and watched logs

burn in the firepit. Smoke rose to the trees, and I turned my eyes to the words

on the pages again, trying to make sense of my exhaustion. Now I know

I was dying then, dying unnoticed and silent like the dog in the sand.

I remind myself that this is my first time on Earth. 

I recall another small boy from summer camp picking up a toad, then throwing

it savagely over the playground fencing. The boy had snickered to himself,

ran off to play on the swingset like nothing happened.

Later, as I passed him on the swings, he called me a faggot.

This is his first time on Earth too, but I can’t find myself 

forgiving him. We have all been been young once, 

but I had felt the grass underneath me, held barn kittens in my tiny hands.

Even then, I knew it was all something meant to be protected.