The Maynard
Spring 2014

Melissa Sawatsky

The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach

Sand and soil wedged in the seats, floor sticky
with spilt juice, wet grass, petals.
Our bumper sticker: One nuclear bomb
can ruin your whole day.

My mother’s beads, feathers,
flowered skirt—a fall of fabric
I reach for, hang onto
when her body strays.

The blanket of her
long, thick hair as she bathes,
the bathroom door open, always.

Down-sloping Douglas-firs slide into
bare-naked bodies that offer new shapes,
sprouts of hair, shades of skin.

My sister and I watch the leather droop
of breasts. Fleshy bells clang
between the legs of middle-aged men.

Under nylon, my torso is flat. A hint of
nipples, areola, and that part where
my hand goes into the shallows, fingering
for the deep end.