thing. The girl’s small, curved hands are
like two shells in sleep. The bartender
raises his foot and brings it down on a
crab, spilling its meat onto the sand, leaving
a pattern in entrails. I eat my tuna salad.
The boys on the beach turn over in their sleep
and the one-eyed man in the café cups
his own face with two hands thoughtfully.
Such violence on gentle shores is common,
he thinks. In the distance, a blue boat
is a little blemish I could rub away, a
transgression. The beach continues to
burn in its silent, unstoppable way.
© Anindita Sengupta.