Tides of a brilliant light
on soft wet sand. An unmade sheet of sea
surfs towards us, and retreats, ice-grey.
My mum and I walk, mostly without talking.
I strip to my togs, handing clothes to her
to hold, then run into the sea,

briars grabbing my legs, feet numb
before I reach my waist and plunge,
gasping. The muscular swell
gives my body something to answer.
Two months on testosterone
and the changes, though slow,

are certain. My arms tauter,
darker hair on my legs, a different,
brinier smell. There were years before,
I’d never warm up after this. I climb out now,
run back through the breakers
to the towel she’s holding. I am her son,

as I hold her arm for balance while I change,
as we walk back over the dunes
and she asks do I want a coffee from the van
though we usually head straight home.
I’m her son as we sit in the carpark,
heat turned up until I can feel my feet again.

 

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From Magma 93

 

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