Did she come to the sea? Did she walk into those summer waters?
She wore costume angel wings, and devils came as sadistic plotters.
August, still so warm and bright, before school and senior year began.
Is she hidden remains in tall grass? A bright star in heaven’s endless span?
Blue and white bathing suit. The mark of her sainthood, indifference to boys.
The sun bleached hair, long bangs over her blue eyes, such aghast, lost decoys.
The brackish salt water marshes are the lost kingdoms of King John the Brave.
That monarch was on TV, in a popular show, supposed a guide for her to behave.
It’s September, many years after, and I still see her out of the corner of my eye.
Like poets see dragons in lazy clouds, and church ladies see Jesus in turkey on rye.
I loved her in a selfish and greedy way. Making amends, I search the littered fields.
Bring even bones home will soothe spirits, but not heal. No grace to this evil yields.