A Blank Spot on the Sand

She talked about the sand,

the way the tide pulled back,

how I'd screamed at a crab, half-buried, hand

flapping like a flag. A small, specific crack

in the ordinary day.

I tried to find it, sifted through

the years, the hazy heat, the salt spray.

Her face, so bright with memory, then too,

went still when I asked, 'When? I said that? How?'

Just a ripple on the surface, then flat.

The beach, the crab, the bright, quick sun

were hers. Not mine. My past,

a film reel with a skip. The moment gone.

A gap, where something funny, fast,

was supposed to be. Just air.