by Emma Goldenthal

art by Belle McDonald

we’re used to all kinds of sand in our shoes.

marker-paint converse, dirty laces, soles worn

smooth from years of wandering

suburban beachtown streets.

will we ever be taller?

sad carnival’s in our sights

or we’re in its?

stained canvas flags, the slow drifting music that mocks

and also yearns. dis-chords. lights

float and gleam

green orange yellow pink

blue against the ever-growing dark,

not quite enough to distract from the

dusky skim of dust and paper trash

on pavement.

we mix and match

overall shorts and band tees and leftover clover chains

linking hands in our pockets.

we’re full from our parents’ cooking.

we like the carousel best.

which creature will we rescue

from its plastic cage?

which song will be the one we dance to?

we reach for the golden ring

to prolong the things we cannot change.

our hands grasp air

and we settle instead on stargazing.

voices carry from the bar across the road,

all the way to the water

that we wade in, beyond

the carousel’s warm glow.

our bare feet sink in the sand,

sneakers piled on the dunes out of sight

but we’ll be back for them soon.

april 2021