Cape Hedge, September

Eyes closed, floating face to sun

beyond the roiling breakers, I banter

with my sister who drifts belly down

on her boogieboard, both of us enthralled

by the green swells, minnow-glittering

clarity, and forgetting

the stealthy, whipsawing

undercurrents, predation masked

by sparkle and sway, and so we fail

to mark the dwindling shore,

mistake drift for drive, chance

for choice until she says, almost lazily:

oh no, rip current, swim, parallel.

We thrash in opposite directions.

She, off with an explosive kick, while

I strike a rattled rhythm, flash back

to salt-scathed signs: At Your Own Risk;

Be Shark Smart, which kindles stinging

recollections of other grave errors:

Stoli shots at the frat house

and the missing weeks after,

the sudden braking on black ice

in Vermont, my untrustworthy Mazda’s

near hurtle to oblivion

with sister, friends, skis, and the endless

falling and falling. And I call up smaller,

less consequential shames: splattered

yolk on charcoal skirt before keynote,

shin burned just short of shred

on a forbidden Harley’s tailpipe.

The old survivals comfort, buoy

me to shore where I finally crawl

onto warm sand. But no sister.

I stand, shout to her ebbing silhouette.

She waves from her boogieboard.

For a moment, bewildered, I think

I hear the ricocheting ghost of her laugh

as she spins ever further, waving,

and waving, how we always do, always

have, almost-but-never drowning.

Mary Beth Hines is the author of “Winter at a Summer House” (Kelsay, 2021). Her writing is widely published. A recent poem placed first in Naugatuck River Review’s 2025 contest and new work appears, or is forthcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, SWWIM, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Connect with her at https://www.marybethhines.com