Nicholas Rega

Sea Debris


Walking down through the gate (that should not be here)          sand          cold           I see the waves white-lipped and shivering           where are you now           and turning right the wind gives me a good          shoving. Shells         shells          from unwatched tides mark a line I do not       cross

          sign          on the          parts strewn and pounded to never fit back together again. Feet           buzz          numb           thumpthumping. I skirt the edge and pick a shell          boomeranging it

          Red throat          of a flower          eaten at by sand and water          center          of a conch

         so red          my feet buzz          thumpbuzzing          numb. Feathery display          winged turmoil          as a head of wind-whipped hair          golden hay buried in the wa-          sand      bedhead mess of bird mauled by some storm          crumbled         crumpled           as a deflated pufferfish          no I saw that cast upon the strand          banana slices?          those that hide shells

          a necklace I once gave         but the shells still to my right and a half bird          red          sunk in the grains          cold         my feet buzz          thump          thump          ing…          Tide pools cut a          you         shape and I dash in          throwing the fish by a fin          but now the pushpull plays with it          and I stomp back averting my gaze          you following behind           dead fishy eyes. Hands casting seashells at ga-sp-ing lips spit-t-ing them back out          more red. But one half is too big          and hands go up in their snailshellsleeves.           No one else braves the breeze

          gulls and pelicans flying in V     not you          formation         information that does not reach          me          going past           yet          there is a hook in my toe          reel me in          another dead pufferfish          and a red          Is that your lover flying over my head          bird shadow          feet cold         thum          p          ing. The other wing torn in the stone smacks from tactless lips painted

          foam           floating free        red again. That wing I pull          stretching it in aerial display

          mauled feathers…          Wet          down in the grains          gate closing.

Born in Krasnoyarsk, Russia, Nicholas Rega studies British & American Literature and Creative Writing at The University of Kent in Canterbury, England. He has been published by The Claremont Review and Four Ties Lit Review and have won the ZO Magazine Silver Prize for Poetry.