When the tide rolls in,

the sun has just started

to creep up the horizon.

We sit at the edge of the beach, where ripples of water

bring tributes of conch shells to the sand, a handful of

clementine marking the space between us.

There’s a trick to it.

Cut the clementine just right,

and it curls into a flower; bright and cheerful and promising

a season for lingering in the brushstrokes of my consciousness,

for taking in the scent of citrus and sea salt that I’ll forget by winter.

We pack ourselves into layers of folded sand,

collarbones splintering in the heat of noon.

Against the too-bright sun, it’s hard to see anything beyond

bare shoulders reddening beneath careless light.

Light pours onto the boardwalk, half-eaten popsicles

strewn around like confetti,

and the cut on my heel

doesn’t sting until hours later.

The waves slip away as if they have a secret to keep

and I give chase, dress twisting in jellyfish tendrils,

hand reaching out toward something that’s missing, something

that’s already long gone.

The breeze comes to greet us, but the sticky feeling remains.

aren’t you forgetting something? the ocean calls. Time rolls

in the palm of my hand.

The sandcastles we built so carefully tilt sideways,

dashed apart by hungry whirlwinds.

There’s nothing to forget.

I peel summer apart, and sepia haze wraps around me,

spilling warmth into my cupped hands.

The tide pulls away,

and the clementines are so sweet

I might’ve stolen a slice of the sun

and tucked it into my pocket.

Written by Jennifer Le, Photography: Chioma Chukwuemeka, Design: Emma Palmer, Social Media: Celine Nguyen, Styling: Zoe Stathopoulos

Low Tide