NEW JERSEY

I am seeing it now for the first time waiting
bobbing like the buoy in anticipation under guided visored hands.

Sharks in every subway station, circling the escalators where we’re lofting
hands tear out of the water’s purple frame, twisting against the foam
the last of it was just spit suspended on the rock beds.

I found the sea wall a drop off into the yellow glum
leaves littered and unfettered among my arms
we took all of our flights in rural bathtubs with the gulls laughing
a geeky warble bouncing overhead.

It’s now that I realize I have adopted my mother’s handwriting.

I wonder under crueler lights why I am not angry
but I am not.

I cradle the worn heat in my limbs until it needs to be returned to the gnashing
and leave the droves of colored umbrellas,
the desperate huddling along the crooked dunes.

I’ll be here forever, where it all falls in disarming numbers
one warped lilac house carved out by the silhouette of gravity’s edge.

I think about the ways my handwriting has changed over time
and now I cross out the shapes that don’t seem to fit.

Michaela McGrath is from Philadelphia, PA. She is an undergraduate student at Niagara University, currently pursuing a degree in English.