The Sea Is Rising

It's summer
humidity seeps into skin,
sweat slowly rolling
down forehead.
Hair glistens in small
droplets of salt.
Neighbors have
the slip-n-slide up
and call at the door.
Swimming trunks snap
elastic and I'm there.
The small grade does
not look fast. Kids
line up and run, jump,
slide down hill.
High pitched laughter
resonates off siding.
The sun sinks below the tree line,
the chain link.
I take my turn, run
slipping on wet grass
flop belly down hard.
Water spurts up the sides
of smooth skin, arching outwards,
unnoticed on fresh cut grass.
Grass that sticks to legs sucking young skin.
The end is quick
grass bent in maze of ants
and dandelions. My hand slides
swift over upturned metal stake.
Upturned at lazy clouds, at weight of afternoon runs.
It slices the left hand,
short of wrist but dangerous.
The kids gather at sight of blood.
Run for Mrs. Beckstrom.
Like a nurse in apron
with dish towel so white it's shameless,
she presses hand around hand.
The blood rages red and spreads
the cloth so thin and my mother
the car and emergency room women
that coo gently to halt my seven year old eyes.
I take seven stitches and the hand is hemmed
like new jeans or the darkness that covers
the parking lot lit with moths. As we drive home
my hand throbs like cicada hymns in the quiet
yard. The cut grass matted to fingers
and fringes of stiff trunks.